THE  BLOWER 
OF  BUBBLES 


ARTHUR  BEVERLEY  BAXTER 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


The  BLOWER  of 
BUBBLES 


The  BLOWER  of 
BUBBLES 


BY 


ARTHUR  BEVERLEY  BAXTER 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 
1920 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


PBINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMEBICA 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 


PREFACE 

It  was  one  of  Dumas'  characters,  I  believe, 
who  said:  "I  do  not  apologize — I  explain."  The 
purpose  of  this  brief  preface  is  to  explain  the 
many  imperfections  which  of  necessity  appear  in 
this  volume. 

It  was  at  a  dance  after  Armistice,  given  by 
American  officers  in  the  Palace  Hotel,  London, 
that  I  met  a  young  lady  who  had  landed  from 
New  York  two  days  previously. 

"My  goodness !"  she  said,  "they  don't  have  any 
furnaces  in  their  houses  here;  and  I've  been  try- 
ing all  day  to  buy  some  rubbers,  and  no  one 
knew  what  I  meant.  My  goodness!  but  they're 
backward  over  here." 

I  looked  at  her  face  and  recognized  the  joyful 
mania  of  the  explorer.  She  was  "discovering" 
England. 

Before  the  war,  England  was  "discovered" 
fairly  often — but  during  the  war  it  became  the 
passion  of  hundreds  of  thousands,  Americans, 
Australians,  New  Zealanders,  Canadians,  New- 

vii 


PREFACE 

foundlanders,  South  Africans — we  all  brought 
our  particular  national  viewpoint  and  centered  it 
on  the  "tight  little  Island,"  nor  were  we  back- 
ward about  telling  the  English  of  their  faults. 
Each  one  of  us  stated  (or  implied)  that  his  own 
country  was  the  special  acreage  of  God,  and 
that  the  Kaiser  ought  to  be  made  to  live  in  foggy 
London  as  a  punishment. 

And  for  more  than  four  years  the  Old  Country 
listened  patiently  as  the  throngs  of  adventurers 
poured  in  from  the  world's  outskirts.  The  state- 
ly homes  of  England  were  opened  in  their  stately, 
hospitable  way;  EngHsh  taxicab  drivers  in- 
sulted and  robbed  us  just  as  cheerfully  as  they 
did  their  own  countrymen;  English  girls  proved 
the  best  of  comrades ;  and  the  Englishman  prop- 
er continued  to  be  the  world's  greatest  enigma. 

So,  in  claiming  admittance  to  that  vast  throng 
that  has  already  discovered  England,  I  do  so 
with  a  certain  humility  but  a  hope  that,  when  my 
words  are  sifted,  some  little  ore  of  truth  may  be 
discovered  at  the  bottom. 

In  three  of  the  five  stories  of  this  collection,  I 
have  usurped  the  power  of  the  Wizard  of  Oz, 
and  have  looked  through  three  pairs  of  glasses. 
In  "The  Blower  of  Bubbles"  an  Enghshman 

viii 


PREFACE 

subjects  his  own  country  to  analysis;  in  "Mr. 
Craighouse  of  Xew  York,  Satirist,"  the  glasses 
used  are  American  and  the  medium  is  a  New 
Yorker;  in  "The  Airy  Prince"  (the  last  and  fa- 
vorite child)  a  girl  of  sixteen  from  Picardy  is 
transplanted  by  aeroplane  for  one  full  day  in 
wartime  London. 

In  the  remaining  two  stories  I  have  endeav- 
ored to  paint  something  of  city  life  in  Canada 
in  the  one,  and  in  the  other  to  do  some  little  jus- 
tice to  that  least  understood  type — the  French 
Canadian. 

During  an  interesting  but  undistinguished  ca- 
reer of  nearly  four  years  with  the  Canadian 
Forces,  I  realized  that,  although  the  army  gives 
one  plenty  of  food  for  thought,  it  sometimes  fails 
to  supply  facilities  for  assimilation.  Par  exem- 
pie:  "Mr.  Craighouse  of  New  York,  Satirist," 
was  started  in  hospital  at  Abbeville,  France, 
where  my  fellow-patients  assumed  me  to  be  a 
lovelorn  swain,  writing  a  love-letter  that  never 
left  off.  Later,  "Mr.  Craighouse"  developed  a 
couple  of  thousand  words  in  a  charming  home 
of  Scotland.  The  last  part  of  the  story  was  fin- 
ished at  a  table  in  the  Turkish  baths  of  the  Royal 
Automobile  Club,  London,  where  the  attendants 

ix 


PREFACE 

were  good  enough  to  consider  me  eccentric,  but 
apparently  not  violent. 

Under  the  robust  companionship  of  several 
normal  and  talkative  subalterns,  "The  Blower 
of  Bubbles"  was  written  in  a  hut  at  Seaford 
Camp  during  the  month  of  November,  1918.  As 
my  stove  was  a  consistent  performer,  nearly  every 
evening  a  few  choice  souls  gathered  for  cocoa  and 
refreshments  from  home;  and  if  their  host  per- 
sisted in  writing  at  his  improvised  table  it  did 
not  disturb  their  good-fellowship  in  the  least, 
providing  the  author  did  not  threaten  to  read  his 
"stuff"  aloud. 

It  was  in  that  hut  in  the  mud  of  Seaford  that, 
one  November  morning,  a  little  before  eleven 
o'clock,  we  heard  the  sound  of  ships'  sirens  in 
Newhaven  Harbor  some  miles  away;  then  a 
distant  shouting,  that  grew  in  a  great  crescendo, 
as  it  rode  across  the  downs  on  the  throats  of  thou- 
sands of  soldiers,  and  passed  us  in  one  great  pro- 
longed roar,  "The  Germans  have  signed!" 

We  missed  Armistice  Day  in  London,  but  I 
like  to  think  of  the  thirty  Canadian  officers,  most 
of  them  veterans  of  many  battles,  gathered  in  the 
mess  of  that  bleakest  of  camps,  while  one  chap  at 
the  piano  played  the  national  anthems  of  the 


PREFACE 

nations  who  had  fought  .  .  .  and  in  voices  that 
were  not  too  steady  we  echoed  the  toast:  "To 
the  Alhes  and  America." 

And  so  "I  do  not  apologize — I  explain." 
In  avoiding  the  "war-story"  type,  I  have  fol- 
lowed my  own  inclinations,  and  have  taken  rather 
the  inconspicuous  parts  played  by  ordinary  peo- 
ple who  had  never  dreamed  of  being  actors  in  the 
world's  greatest  drama.  To  avoid  the  back- 
gi'ound  of  war  would  be  utterly  impossible,  for 
war  has  been  a  fever  in  our  blood  these  last  four 
years,  and  not  in  one  or  two  generations  will  our 
veins  be  free  of  it. 

If  it  seems  in  these  stories  that  there  is  a  re- 
current note  on  the  necessity  of  artistic  expression 
for  the  Old  Country,  the  reason  for  it  is  that  we 
came  from  the  Dominions  to  a  land  we  all  knew, 
because  English  literature  had  made  England 
our  Mother-Country  in  the  real  sense  of  the  word. 
It  is  the  hope  of  many  of  us  that  the  artists  of 
Britain — whether  they  be  writers,  painters,  or 
composers — will  yet  realize  that  the  Empire  looks 
to  them,  as  well  as  to  the  knights  of  the  air,  to 
bridge  the  seas,  and  by  their  art  make  us  feel  as 
great  a  kinship  in  peace  as  we  did  in  war.  Dick- 
ens and  Burns  were  more  than  writers;  they 

xi 


PREFACE 

were  literature's  ambassadors,  and  played  no  in- 
considerable part  in  empire-building. 

Perhaps,  as  the  study  of  ordinary  people 
gripped  by  emotions  which  left  no  one  ordinary, 
this  volume  of  stories  may  be  of  some  little  in- 
terest. They  filled  many  dull  hours  in  the  writ- 
ing. ...  It  would  be  a  rich  reward  for  the  au- 
thor if  he  could  think  that  they  do  away  with  a 
few  dull  hours  in  the  reading. 

Aethue  Beveeley  Baxter 


Xll 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  ^^^^ 

I.    The  Blower  of  Bubbles 1 

II.    Petite  Simunde 9''' 

III.  The  Man  who  Scoffed 141 

IV.  The  Airy  Prince 191 

V.    Mr.  Craighouse  of  New  York,  Satirist  287 


The  BLOWER  of 
BUBBLES 


SNOW  was  falling  in  Sloane  Square,  quar- 
reling with  rain  as  it  fell.  Lamps  were 
gleaming  sulkily  in  Sloane  Square,  as  though 
they  resented  being  made  to  work  on  such  a 
night,  and  had  more  than  a  notion  to  down  tools 
and  go  out  of  business  altogether.  Motor-cars 
were  passing  through  Sloane  Square,  with  glar- 
ing lights,  sliding  and  skidding  like  inebriated 
dragons ;  and  the  clattering  hoofs  of  horses  draw- 
ing vagabond  cabs  sounded  annoyingly  loud  in 
the  damp-charged  air  of  Sloane  Square. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve  in  Sloane  Square,  and 
the  match-woman,  the  vender  of  newspapers, 
and  the  impossible  road-sweeper  were  all  exact- 
ing the  largesse  of  passers-by,  who  felt  that  the 

1 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

six-penny  generosity  of  a  single  night  atoned  for 
a  year's  indifference  to  their  lot.  People  were 
wishing  each  other  a  merry  Christmas  in  Sloane 
Square,  as  they  struggled  along  under  ungainly 
parcels.  The  muffin-man  was  doing  an  enormous 
trade. 

And  I  looked  from  my  window  and  prayed 
for  Aladdin's  Lamp  or  the  Magic  Carpet,  that  I 
might  place  a  thousand  miles  between  myself  and 
Sloane  Square. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Enter  the  Slave  of  the  Lamp,"  said  I,  and 
the  door  opened  to  admit — my  landlady,  Mrs. 
Mulvaney. 

"Will  you  be  dining  in?"  she  said.  Her  Irish 
accent  hardly  helped  the  illusion  of  the  all-potent 
slave. 

"And  why  not?"  I  asked. 

"Ach,    nothing,  sor.     I  only  thought '* 

"An  unwomanly  thing  to  do,  Mrs.  Mulvaney." 

"You're  afther  being  a  strange  one,  dining 
alone  on  Christmas  Eve." 

"Then  join  me,  Mrs.  Mulvaney." 

I  swear  she  blushed,  and  I  felt  more  than  a 
little  envious  of  the  nature  which  could  convert 

2 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

such  a  vinegary  attempt  at  condescension  into  a 
gallantry. 

"F'what  would  I  be  doing,  taking  dinner  wid 
a  child  like  you?" 

I  was  twenty-five,  but  Mrs.  Mulvaney  looked 
on  all  men  as  equally  immature. 

"And  have  you  not  got  no  friends?"  she  went 
on,  but  I  stopped  her  with  a  gesture. 

"Thank  Heaven — no!"  I  said.  "I  am  one  of 
intellectuality's  hermits.  An  educated  man  in 
London  is  like  the  bell-cow  of  the  herd — a  thing 
apart." 

"You're  a  great  fool,  I'm  afther  thinking." 

"The  foolish  always  damn  the  wise,"  I  an- 
swered, with  an  attempt  at  epigrammatic  mis- 
quotation. 

Mrs.  Mulvaney  heaved  a  sigh.  Its  very  force- 
fulness  recalled  the  nautical  meaning  of  the  verb. 

"You'd  be  a  sight  happier  outside,"  she  said. 
"Holy  Mary  knows  I  wouldn't  be  driving  you 
into  the  streets,  but  I'm  worried  you'd  get  cross 
wid  yourself  at  home." 

To  get  rid  of  her,  I  put  on  my  coat  and  went 
out.     Perhaps  she  was  right;  things  would  have 

3 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

been  intolerable  at  home.  Home!  Such  a 
travesty  of  the  word!  The  sickly  lamplight  of 
Sloane  Square  was  preferable. 

"Merry  Christmas,  guv'nor!"  said  the  road- 
sweeper. 

"Merry  fiddlesticks !"  I  growled,  and  gave  him 
sixpence.  I  tried  to  avoid  the  vender  ot  news- 
papers, but  he  spotted  my  fur  collar  with  the 
instinct  of  a  mendicant,  handing  me  a  paper  and 
his  blessing. 

"  'Appy  Christmas,  milord!"  said  he. 

I  paid  him  a  shilling  for  his  diplomacy. 

Thinking  to  escape  the  match-woman,  I  al- 
tered my  course,  but  with  the  intuition  of  her 
sex  she  contrived  to  put  herself  directly  in  my 
path. 

"It's  a  cauld  nicht,"  she  moaned  in  a  rickety, 
quavering  Scottish  voice — "a  cauld,  wintry  nicht. 
Ye'll  be  haein'  a  wee  box  o'  matches,  aw'm 
thinkin'!" 

I  gave  her  twopence  for  them,  and  she  shivered 
with  cold  as  her  skinny  fingers  clutched  the  coins. 
I  can  think  of  no  excuse  for  my  parsimony  ex- 
cept the  fact  that  I  didn't  need  the  wretched 
box — matches  were  not  yet  a  luxury  of  the  very 
exclusive. 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Yes — in  all  Sloane  Square,  on  that  damp  and 
foggy  Christmas  Eve  in  the  year  1913,  I  doubt 
if  a  more  morose,  self-satisfied,  cynical  human 
being  plunged  into  the  mists  than  I.  I  was  un- 
happy, and  reveled  in  my  very  unhappiness.  If 
it  had  been  in  my  power,  I  would  have  sent  a 
cloud  of  gloom  into  every  home  and  over  every 
hearth  in  London.  There  was  something  splen- 
did, something  classical,  in  my  melancholy;  it 
was  like  Hamlet's,  but  greater  than  Hamlet's, 
for  he  knew  the  reason  of  his  mood,  while  mine 

was  born  of  an  intangible  superiority  to  my 
day! 

It  is  not  easy,  even  now,  to  write  of  those  days. 
The  figure  that  crosses  the  screen  of  memory  re- 
minds me  of  Chevy  Slyme — a  debt-paying,  re- 
spectable Chevy  Slyme,  forsooth! — but  just  as 
sulkily  swaggering,  just  as  superior,  and  not 
quite  so  human ;  for  Chevy,  at  least,  inspired  the 
friendship  of  Mr.  Tigg. 

II 

Unconsciously  following  the  bus  route,  I 
emerged    eventually    on    Piccadilly,    and    was 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

jostled  and  ogled  and  blessed  and  cursed  with 
the  greatest  heartiness.  Somewhere  near  Bond 
Street  I  collided  heavily  with  a  young  man  who 
was  trying  to  negotiate  the  crowd  and  at  the 
same  time  lose  nothing  of  the  shop  windows'  dis- 
play. 

"A  thousand  devils!"  I  muttered,  recoiling 
from  the  impact. 

"A  thousand  pardons!"  he  said,  raising  his  hat. 
The  graceful  lilt  of  his  voice  was  peculiarly 
reminiscent;  his  smooth  brow  and  silky  fair  hair 
were  both  familiar  and  elusive. 

"One  moment "     He  gazed  into  my  face 

with  a  searching  look,  keeping  his  hat  poised  in 
the  air  as  if  the  better  to  concentrate  his  thoughts. 
"Not  the  Pest?"  he  said. 

I  nodded,  and,  if  the  truth  be  told,  felt  not  a 
little  pleased  at  the  sound  of  the  old  nom  d'ecole 
earned  when  I  was  at  Westminster. 

"And  how,"  I  said,  "is  the  Blower  of  Bub- 
bles?" 

For  answer  he  replaced  his  hat  at  a  rakish 
angle  and  shook  my  hand  with  both  his  for  what 
seemed  a  full  minute,  the  crowd  parting  good- 
naturedly  like  a  wave  encircling  a  rock. 

6 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"My  dear  old  Pest,"  he  said,  "we  shall  dine 
together." 

"I'm  sorry,  but " 

"There  is  a  perfectly  vile  restaurant  half-a- 
mile  from  here,  that  has  the  best  violinist  and  the 
worst  cook  in  London." 

"My  dear  chap " 

"Of  all  the  luck!  Think  of  my  running  into 
you  on  Christmas  Eve!" 

And  just  then  I  noticed  that  we  were  no 
longer  standing  still,  but  proceeding  up  a  side 
street,  arm-in-arm,  while  his  disengaged  hand 
indicated  the  passing  scene  as  if  it  were  the  most 
gorgeous  bazaar  of  the  Orient.  He  spoke  with 
extraordinary  rapidity,  except  in  uttering  certain 
words,  when  he  would  make  a  slurring  pause,  as 
a  singer  will  let  a  note  melt  into  a  pianissimo, 
then  race  on  again  with  renewed  vigor.  It  was 
a  fascinating  trick  of  speech,  and,  added  to  the 
subtle  inflections  of  his  voice,  never  failed  to 
startle  one  into  the  closest  attention. 

I  turned  to  him  once  with  some  remark  on  my 
lips,  and  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  dancing  with 
merriment. 

"What  is  it.  Pest?"  he  cried.     "Out  with  it!" 

7 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

I  smiled  gloomily ;  but  still  it  was  a  smile. 

"Why,"  I  said,  "aren't  the  lamps  in  Sloane 
Square  bright  like  these?" 

He  didn't  answer.  Probably  he  knew  the 
truth  would  have  hurt. 


Ill 


What  a  hole  to  dine  in  on  Christmas  Eve! 
Such  waiters — such  guests — such  food — such 
wine! 

I  believe  the  proprietor  owned  three  such  es- 
tablishments, each,  in  a  triumph  of  irony,  called 
"Arcadia."  The  very  linen  of  the  waiters 
drooped  disconsolately,  and  the  whole  place 
reeked  of  cabbage  and  wet  umbrellas.  My 
spirits,  which  had  risen  momentarily  from  their 
classic  depths,  sank  like  the  sands  of  an  egg- 
timer. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  I  said,  "you  can't  mean  to 
dine  here?" 

An  oily  waiter  ambled  up  to  us  and  wrung  his 
hands  in  a  paroxysm  of  welcome. 

"Your  tabil,  Meester  Norman,"  he  said  in 

8 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

some  nondescript  foreign  dialect,  "iss  ready." 

Good  heavens!  The  Blower  of  Bubbles  had 
even  ordered  dinner  in  advance!  With  the  feel- 
ings of  an  unwilling  martyr,  I  followed  my 
friend  and  his  escort  past  tawdry  millinery  sales- 
women, dining  in  state  with  their  knights-errant 
of  the  haberdashery  stores;  by  a  table  where  a 
woman  was  gazing  admiringly  at  a  man  with  a 
face  as  expressionless  as  a  pumpkin;  through  a 
lane  of  chattering,  laughing,  rasping  denizens  of 
the  London  that  is  neither  West  End  nor  East 
End — of  people  whose  clothes,  faces,  and  voices 
merged  into  a  positive  debauch  of  mediocrity. 

When  we  were  seated  and  had  ordered  some- 
thing from  the  waiter,  I  turned  to  Basil  Norman 
for  an  explanation. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked.  "An  affair  with  a 
seamstress,  or  are  you  just  looking  for  'copy'  ?" 

He  laughed  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Pest,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  caprice  of  mine,  a  tit- 
bit for  my  vanity.  You  would  have  chosen  the 
'Trocadero'  or  the  'Ritz,'  with  all  the  tyranny  of 
Olympian  and  largessed  waiters  with  whom  it  is 
impossible  to  attain  the  least  pretence  of  equal- 
ity.    I  prefer  'Arcadia,'  where  I  am  something 

9 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

of  a  patron  saint,  and  am  even  consulted  by  the 
proprietor." 

"You  play  to  humble  audiences." 

"Quietly,  Pest — the  proprietor  might  hear 
you.  He  is  a  very  Magog  for  dignity,  I  assure 
you,  in  spite  of  his  asthma." 

"I  gather,  then,  that  you  are  a  regular  diner 
here?" 

"Hardly  that.  But  I  am  a  little  more  con- 
sistent than  most  of  his  patrons.  To  be  candid" 
— ^he  leaned  towards  me  as  if  it  were  a  secret  of 
the  first  magnitude — "it's  his  cook." 

"His  what?" 

"His  cook.  Really,  I'm  afraid  he's  hardly 
first  class." 

"I  am  certain  of  it." 

"He  would  have  made  an  admirable  medieval 
Jesuit,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  wonder  Stein- 
burg " 

"The  proprietor?" 

"Yes.  I  don't  know  why  he  keeps  him  on. 
He  says  the  fellow  has  a  couple  of  blind  chil- 
dren, and  if  he  were  dismissed  under  a  cloud  he 
would   have   trouble   in   securing   employment. 

10 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

But  that's  not  business.  The  fellow's  an  ass, 
isn't  he?" 

Whereupon  his  face  beamed  with  delight,  and 
his  gray  eyes  twinkled  like  diamonds.  My  com- 
ment on  the  matter  was  stifled  by  the  arrival  of 
hors-d'oeuvre.  I  had  no  idea  that  one  tray  could 
hold  such  a  variety  of  unpalatable  things.  At 
the  table  next  to  us  a  woman  laughed  boister- 
ously, her  shoulders,  which  were  fat  and  form- 
less, vibrating  like  blanc-mange. 

"Ah!"  said  Basil  Norman;  "Klotz  has  ar- 
rived." 

He  indicated  a  low  platform,  where  a  dingy 
pianist,  pimply  of  countenance  and  long  of  hair, 
was  strumming  the  barbaric  discords  that  always 
accompany  the  tuning  of  stringed  instruments. 
A  violinist,  with  his  back  towards  us,  was 
stranghng  his  instrument  into  submission;  while 
a  cellist,  possessed  of  enormous  eyebrows  and  a 
superb  immobility  of  pasty-facial  expressionless- 
ness,  sat  by  his  cello  as  though  he  had  been  lured 
there  under  false  pretenses,  and  had  no  inten- 
tion of  taking  any  part  in  the  proceedings — 
unless  forced  to  do  so  by  a  writ  of  habeas- 
corpus.     A   fourth   musician,   who    seemed    all 

11 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

shirt  and  collar,  blew  fitfully  into  a  flute,  as  if 
he  realized  it  was  an  irrelevant  thing,  and  was 
trying  to  rouse  it  to  a  sense  of  responsibility. 

"Which,"  I  asked,  "is  Klotz?" 

As  I  spoke  the  violinist  turned  about  and 
caught  my  host's  eye.  They  both  bowed — Nor- 
man cordially;  the  musician,  I  thought,  with  re- 
straint. The  fellow  stood  out  as  a  man  apart 
from  his  accomplices;  his  high  forehead  and 
dreamy  eyes  were  those  of  an  artist,  though  a 
receding  chin  robbed  his  face  of  strength.  He 
was  the  type  one  sees  so  often — able  to  touch, 
but  never  grasp,  the  cup  of  success. 

"Klotz,"  said  Norman,  "is  superb.  He  has 
the  touch  of  the  artist  about  him.  His  tone  is 
not  always  good,  and  sometimes  he  scratches; 
but  when  he  is  at  his  best  he  does  big  things. 
So  many  people  can  perform  at  music — just  as 
so  many  write  at  words — but  Klotz  plays  with 
color.  His  art  has  all  the  charm  of  a  day  in 
April.  He  will  caress  a  phrase  according  to  his 
mood,  like  a  mother  crooning  to  her  child.  To 
know  how  to  hesitate  before  a  note  in  a  melody, 
as  a  worshiper  hesitates  at  the  entrance  to  a 
shrine,  is  Art,  and  an  Art  that  cannot  be  taught. 

12 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

It  is  so  with  painters,  writers,  musicians — they 
must  have  that  sense  of  color,  that  instinct  that 
brings  each  subtle  nuance  of  expression  into 
being." 

I  began  to  feel  bored. 

Suddenly  the  orchestra  became  animated  and 
burst  into  a  waltz,  one  of  those  ageless,  rhyth- 
mic compositions  that  might  have  been  the  very 
first  or  the  very  last  waltz  ever  written.  Sup- 
ported by  wailing  strings  and  the  irrelevant 
flute,  the  enjoyment  of  the  diners  took  on  fresh 
impetus.  The  lady  with  the  shoulders  became  a 
vibrating  obbligato.  The  pumpkin-faced  man 
beamed  fatuous  delight,  an  electric  light  behind 
him  giving  the  odd  effect  that  he  was  illumi- 
nated inside  like  a  Hallow-e'en  figure.  A  girl, 
who  might  have  been  pretty  if  she  hadn't 
rouged,  took  a  puff  from  her  toilet-case  and 
powdered  her  nose.  She  felt  that  the  evening 
was  commencing.  Over  the  whole  scene  my 
melancholy  brooded  as  a  ghostly  presence.  To 
me  it  seemed  like  the  dominant  seventh  in  a 
chord  of  surfeiting  commonplaceness ;  once  it 
was  heard,  the  whole  pitch  of  the  evening  would 
alter  to  another  key. 

13 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Fortunately  the  dominant  seventh  remained 
unheard. 

The  waltz  stopped,  and  we  turned  our  undi- 
vided attention  to  dinner. 

"Klotz,"  said  my  host,  pouring  me  a  glass  of 
wine,  "should  have  made  a  mark,  but " 

"Damn  Klotz!" 

"That  has  been  done,  Pest.  The  Bricklayers' 
Union,  or  something  equally  esthetic,  took  ex- 
ception to  him  for  one  reason  or  another,  and 
prevailed  upon  its  sister-cabal  to  debar  him  from 
the  big  orchestras.  To  offend  your  Union,  dear 
boy,  is  to  accomplish  the  total  eclipse  of  your 
future.  Even  genius  to-day  is  subject  to  regu- 
lations. Klotz  is  in  a  worse  position  than  a 
clerk  with  a  Board  School  education  trying  to 
secure  employment  in  a  London  bank." 

"Confound  it!"  I  said,  "there  must  be  some 
spheres  reserved  for  gentlemen." 

His  twinkling  eyes  steadied,  and  a  dreamy 
look  crept  into  them.  "Pest,"  he  murmured, 
"some  day  England  is  going  to  thank  God  for 
the  gentlemen — who  were  educated  at  Board 
Schools.  Listen! — the  cellist  is  playing  Saint- 
Saens." 

14) 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Dinner — or  the  mess  of  foodstuffs  dignified 
by  the  name — was  almost  finished  when  Klotz, 
the  violinist,  started  one  of  the  rare  melodies 
which  Wagner  permitted  himself — the  Song  to 
the  Evening  Star. 

It  was  being  beautifully  played — even  I 
would  have  admitted  that — but  I  could  not  ac- 
count for  the  troubled  look  that  crept  into  my 
companion's  face,  driving  the  gayety  and  the 
whimsicality  from  it  as  a  cloud  obscures  the  sun- 
light. 

"Klotz,"  he  said  anxiously,  *'is  in  great  sor- 
row." 

"How  the  deuce,"  I  muttered,  with  a  feeling 
of  creepiness  stealing  over  me,  "can  you  tell 
that?    Do  you  read  it  in  his  face?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Listen!"  he  said;  "can't 
you  hear  it?     Can't  you  feel  the  tears  in  it?" 

And  in  spite  of  myself  I  remained  silent,  held 
irresistibly  by  the  double  fascination  of  the  Ger- 
man's artistry  and  the  sense  of  mystery  engen- 
dered by  Norman.  The  last  sob  of  the  G  string 
quivered  to  its  finish.  The  crowd  applauded 
perfunctorily,   then   applied   themselves   to   the 

15 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

more  essential  things  of  life — food,  wine  and 
noise. 

Rousing  myself  from  the  reverie  into  which  I 
had  fallen,  I  turned  to  Norman,  and  found  his 
chair  vacated.  I  started.  He  had  reached  the 
platform,  and  was  talking  earnestly  to  the  vio- 
linist. Half-contemptuous  and  half-interested, 
I  watched  the  pantomime  as  they  talked.  Nor- 
man's hands  were  emphasizing  some  point,  and 
every  gesture  was  a  pleasure  to  the  eye;  the 
musician  was  protesting,  but  with  steadily  abat- 
ing determination.  Then  the  scene  came  to  a 
climax,  and  the  German  disappeared. 

Holding  the  violin  in  his  arms,  Basil  Norman 
mounted  the  platform,  the  fingers  of  his  left 
hand  picking  quiet,  pizzicato  notes  from  the 
strings. 

"My   friends "     His   voice  traveled  like 

sound  on  the  ocean  at  twilight;  the  room  sub- 
sided into  silence,  and  diners  craned  their  necks 
to  see  him.  The  woman  with  the  shoulders 
brought  them  to  a  standstill,  like  an  electric  fan 
that  had  lost  its  current. 

"My  friends" — what  a  charming  voice  the  fel- 
low had! — "I  do  not  want  to  bring  a  note  of 

16 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

sorrow  into  your  happiness.  You  are  here,  like 
my  companion  and  myself,  for  enjoyment;  but 
Herr  Klotz  ...  his  wife  is  very  ill;  she  is 
perhaps  dying;  and,  my  friends,  it  is  very  hard 
that  he  should  play  while  his  wife  is  dying  .  .  . 
on  Christmas  Eve  ...  in  a  strange  country. 
You  are  English,  and  I  know  you  are  kind.  I 
have  sent  him  home,  and  I  promised  that  I 
would  take  his  place,  as  well  as  I  can  take  the 
place  of  such  an  artist.  For  you  who  work  so 
hard,  it  is  not  fair  to  spoil  your  happiness  on 
this  of  all  nights — but  you  will  forgive  me? 
Good!" 

And  his  face  had  a  whimsical,  tender  look. 

A  murmur  of  sympathy  rose  from  the  crowd, 
but  died  away  as  he  raised  the  violin  in  his 
hands  and  brought  from  it  a  tone  that  breathed 
over  them  like  a  benediction.  It  was  Gounod's 
"Ave  Maiia"  and  the  pianist's  fingers  were 
mothering  the  keys  as  thc}^  had  not  done  since 
his  ambition  evaporated  like  a  cloud  on  a  sum- 
mer day. 

It  was  exquisite — haunting.  It  was  a  prayer 
to  Mary,  but  a  prayer  sung  in  a  field  of  daisies 

17 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

and  violets.  There  was  sorrow  in  it,  but  it  was 
the  grief  of  a  girl  over  a  shattered  dream.  It 
was  mature  artistry,  yet  was  born  of  sunshine 
and  throbbed  with  the  primrose  sweetness  of 
youth.  It  touched  one  like  the  face  of  a  beau- 
tiful child. 

Still  caressing  the  violin,  he  repeated  the 
"Ave  Maria"  whistling  a  unison.  With  almost 
any  one  else  it  would  have  been  commonplace; 
with  him  it  was  a  sound  more  pleasing  than  any 
flute,  and  only  accentuated  his  sense  of  eman- 
cipation from  the  thrall  of  years.  He  played 
"Still  wie  die  Nacht/'  "Old  King  Wenceslaus" 
"Meditation"  from  Thais,  "Intermezzo"  of 
Mascagni;  and  whatever  he  did,  or  however 
hackneyed  the  piece,  he  surrounded  it  with  a 
joyousness  that  trembled  on  the  brink  of  tears. 

I  looked  at  my  watch ;  it  was  nearly  midnight, 
and  the  evening  so  dreaded  was  almost  at  a 
close.  He  had  put  down  his  violin  with  a  ges- 
ture of  finality,  when  the  prolonged  outburst 
of  applause  changed  his  decision,  and,  with  an- 
other of  those  rare  smiles,  he  took  the  instru- 
ment once  more. 

18 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Maxwellton's  braes  are  bonnie 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 

Gi'ed  me  her  promise  true.  .  .  . 

The  violin  seemed  to  speak  the  words;  and 
I'll  swear  there  wasn't  a  woman  in  the  place 
who  wasn't  recalling  the  sweet  innocence  of  her 
first  love.  He  had  hardly  finished,  when  the 
man  with  the  face  like  a  pumpkin  jumped  to 
his  feet,  and  I  rubbed  my  eyes. 

The  fellow  had  changed.  His  face  had  ex- 
pression. Confound  it!  there  was  something 
rather  splendid  about  his  features — a  kindliness 


"Young  feller,  m'lad,"  he  was  saying,  "I 
knows  I  speaks  for  hevery  one  when  I  says  we 
ain't  'card  music  like  that  there  since  we  was 
knee-'igh  to  a  grass'opper,  and  I  knows  you 
won't  take  it  hamiss  if  we  was  to  pass  the  'at 
and " 

I  held  my  breath.  What  would  the  Blower 
of  Bubbles  say? 

"You're  a  brick,  sir  I"  His  voice  was  a  mel- 
low contrast  to  the  other's.     "My  friends,  this 

19 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

gentleman  has  suggested  that  we  pass  the  hat 
for  our  poor  friend  Klotz." 

"I  didn't  neither,"  protested  the  benefactor. 
"Leastways " 

But  the  woman  of  the  shoulders  cut  him  short 
by  placing  two  shillings  beside  him.  It  was 
tactful  of  her,  a  kindly  thing  to  do,  and  again 
I  was  amazed.  There  was  a  womanly,  motherly 
look  about  her  as  she  turned  away,  and  her  eyes 
were  radiant  like  stars  in  a  mist. 

I  think  I  gave  ten  bob — it  must  have  been  a 
considerable  amount,  for  the  girl  who  would 
have  been  pretty  if  she  hadn't  rouged  looked 
straight  into  my  eyes  and  said  something  that 
sounded  like  a  blessing.  I  hope  it  was;  she 
made  me  think  of  a  little  sister  I  once  had. 

And  then  we  were  walking  together  again  in 
the  street,  and  the  crowds  were  thinner  than  be- 
fore. I  cannot  remember  what  we  talked  of,  but 
I  know  I  said  to  him,  "Where  did  you  learn  to 
play  like  that?" 

And  he  answered,  "My  dear  old  boy,  music 
must  be  loved,  not  learned." 

Then  we  were  in  Sloane  Square,  at  my  flat, 
and  I  was  thanking  him,  or  he  was  thanking  me 

20 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

— I  forget  which;  and  he  promised  to  call  at 
noon  next  day  to  take  me  to  Klotz's  home.  .  .  . 
And  the  lamps  in  Sloane  Square  seemed  duller 
than  before. 

Selfishness  does  not  die  in  an  hour,  but  the 
bachelor  who  looked  from  his  window  that  night 
was  a  different  man  from  the  one  who  had 
spoken  to  Mrs.  Mulvaney.  He  was  thinking 
.  .  .  and  much  is  accomplished  in  itself  when  a 
man  is  made  to  think. 

A  distant  clock  struck  one. 

I  have  never  known  any  one  to  change  so  lit- 
tle with  the  cycle  of  years  as  Basil  Norman. 
When  he  came  to  Westminster,  at  the  age  of 
twelve,  he  had  an  easy  nonchalance,  a  delightful 
insouciance,  that  never  left  him.  He  went  from 
form  to  form,  trod  the  stone-flagged  passages 
as  others  did;  but  the  youth  of  seventeen  that 
left  Westminster  bore  the  same  smiling,  de- 
tached personality  as  when  he  entered.  The 
atmosphere  of  tradition  interested  but  did  not 
drug  him;  the  Elizabethan  pancake  impressed 

21 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

him  less  than  did  a  contemporary  Edwardian 
soap-bubble. 

Conscientious  form-masters  recognized  his  ex- 
traordinary abilities,  and  gave  him  the  benefit 
of  well-worded  and  impressive  homilies  on 
achievement.  Sometimes  for  effect  they  quoted 
Latin.  Norman  would  counter  with  a  "Greek 
remark."  He  never  studied,  but  more  than  one 
scholar  owed  success  to  the  eleventh-hour  coach- 
ing of  Basil  Norman.  Learning,  like  every- 
thing else,  came  to  him  as  a  needle  to  a  magnet. 

With  a  curious  air  of  detachment  he  watched 
the  panorama  of  schoolboy  life,  noticing  with  a 
discerning  eye  the  various  strata  upon  which 
public-school  morality  is  founded,  assigning  the 
relative  importance  of  scholarship  and  cricket, 
and  nodding  knowingly  as  the  process  of  stan- 
dardization brought  similarity  of  speech,  accent, 
thought,  and  vocabulary  to  all  his  fellows. 

He  was  like  a  Puck  who  had  never  been  really 
young,  but  who  refused  to  become  a  day  older. 

For  a  few  weeks  he  played  cricket,  but  with- 
out reverence.  During  a  match  he  kept  up 
(sotto  voce,  of  course)  a  running  commentary 
of  philosophy  which,   according  to  our  ethics, 

22 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

was  vulgar.  I  shudder  to  think  what  he  would 
have  done  if  Westminster  had  adopted  baseball. 

On  one  occasion  the  captain  of  the  eleven 
took  upon  himself  to  point  out  to  Basil  Norman 
the  error  of  his  ways.  The  worthy  demigod  de- 
plored Norman's  habit  of  lying  on  the  grass  dur- 
ing practice  and  inventing  couplets  on  the  vari- 
ous members  of  the  team.  The  captain  also 
said  that,  providing  he  would  take  the  game 
seriously,  there  was  a  future  for  him  as  a 
cricketer.  Whereupon  Norman,  from  his  re- 
cumbent position,  misquoted  most  of  the  "To  be, 
or  not  to  be"  soliloquy,  unblushingly  attributing 
Hamlet's  indecision  towards  living  to  his  doubts 
of  himself  as  a  cricketer.  When  he  finished  he 
rose  to  his  feet,  and  our  comments  were  frozen 
at  the  sight  of  his  face. 

His  cheeks  had  a  ghastly  pallor  and  his  eyes 
were  brilliant,  but  with  a  fixed,  glaring  in- 
tensity. And  as  we  looked  his  expression 
changed — the  color  returned  with  a  glow  of 
warmth  to  his  skin,  and  his  eyes  were  gray  and 
humorous.  Being  boys,  we  forgot  about  it  as 
quickly  as  it  had  happened. 

The  next  Saturday  we  played  Charterhouse, 

23 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

and  though  the  score  was  heavily  against  us, 
Xorman  gave  the  finest  exhibition  of  batting  I 
have  seen  in  public-school  cricket,  scoring  a  cen- 
tur.y  and  winning  the  match  for  us.  He  was 
frail  but  lithe,  and  with  an  air  of  aplomb  batted 
the  offerings  of  Charterhouse  to  all  points  of 
the  compass.  At  the  finish  of  the  game  we 
crowded  around  him,  but  he  smiled  a  little 
wearily,  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  finished  with  cricket,"  he  said. 

Bewilderment,  then  anathema,  broke  like  a 
thunder-shower  upon  the  head  of  Basil  Norman. 
We  pleaded;  we  argued;  we  threatened;  then 
we  used  language  which  possessed  the  merit  of 
forcefulness  and  frankness.  We  called  him  a 
swine,  a  rotter,  a  skunk,  and  an  absolute  cad. 
Some  one  ventured  the  opinion  that  he  was  a 
perfect  stink,  and  we  all  stood  about  him  like 
the  Klu  Klux  Klan  trying  a  negro  malefactor. 

'''Gentlemen,"  he  said — and  there  was  a  de- 
lightful touch  of  irony  in  the  word — "you  have 
come  to  bury,  not  to  praise,  me;  yet,  unlike 
Csesar,  I  am  not  ambitious." 

"Swine!"  said  Smith  tertius  (or  was  it  quar- 
tus?). 

24 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

**In  spite  of  the  witty  comment  of  me  learned 
friend,"  said  Xorman,  after  the  manner  of  the 
leading  counsel  of  the  day,  "I  have  always  held 
the  opinion  that  life  is  a  thing  to  be  sipped,  not 
drunk.  I  have  played  cricket — veni,  vidi,  I 
scored  a  century!  I  would  not  spoil  me  appe- 
tite, milords,  by  overgorging." 

"Your  conduct,"  said  Grubbs,  the  captain,  "is 
rotten.  It  shows  that  you  don't  give  a  fig  for 
the  honor  of  the  school.  If  you  want  to  be  a 
pig,  you  can  wear  the  cap  of  one."  (We  all  knew 
what  he  meant,  and  admired  him  frightfull}^  for 
his  venture  into  the  quagmire  of  metaphor.) 
"We  will  send  you  to  Coventry  until  you  come 
to  your  senses." 

The  culprit  bowed  airily. 

"You  will  lose  much  more  by  my  silence  than 
I  by  yours,"  he  said — and  it  takes  considerable 
courage  to  make  such  a  statement  to  a  tribunal 
of  schoolboys. 

If  Norman  suffered  from  our  aloofness,  he 
took  it  with  the  same  nonchalance  as  he  had 
taken  our  plaudits.  Oddly  enough,  he  had  no 
intimate  friends,  and  all  of  us,  partly  out  of  re- 
sentment against  his  pose  of  onlooker,  and  more 

25 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

from  the  love  of  torture  which  links  the  school- 
boy to  the  savage,  performed  our  duty  of  silent 
punishment  with  a  zeal  which  deserved  a  better 
inspiration.  We  forgot  how  he  had  made 
friends  with  the  misfits  whose  square  personali- 
ties were  being  drawn  through  the  round  hole 
of  public-school  life.  Little  chaps  he  had  taken 
in  hand  on  arrival  when  they  wanted  to  weep 
for  loneliness  turned  from  him  as  if  he  held  con- 
tagion. All  the  sensitive,  shrinking  ones  about 
whom  he  had  thrown  his  cloak  of  vivacity,  and 
who  were  now  grown  bold  and  self-reliant,  let 
him  pass  from  the  Little  Dean's  Yard  to  his 
house  and  through  the  ancient  passages,  a  lonely 
debonair  figure  that  always  smiled.  .  .  .  And 
no  one  spoke  to  him.  I,  whom  he  had  named 
"The  Pest,"  thus  turning  my  naturally  perverse 
sulkiness  into  a  subject  of  jest  and  good-humor, 
took  a  special  delight  in  watching  the  man  who 
had  been  sentenced  by  his  peers  to  solitude  in 
the  midst  of  a  crowd. 

His  peers?  .  .  .  Was  it  Smith  tertius  (or 
quartus)  who  used  the  word  "swine"? 

Two  weeks  had  passed,  and  we  were  to  play 
Winchester  a  decisive  match  on  our  grounds, 

26 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

which,  as  land  near  the  cathedral  is  rather  diffi- 
cult to  obtain,  are  almost  a  mile  from  the  school. 

The  stage  was  set.  Youthful  scholars  of  ten 
and  twelve  walked  in  their  gowns,  their  brows 
knit  with  thought,  their  eyes  blinking  from  over- 
study.  Little  chaps  struggled  under  the  re- 
sponsibility of  silk  toppers,  and  conversed  sol- 
emnly on  the  deterioration  of  the  tuck-shop ;  and 
the  Olympian  creature  who  was  the  head-boy  of 
the  school  lounged  outside  the  scoring-booth  as 
if  he  were  "fed  up"  with  nectar,  and  would  like 
some  brown  October  ale  for  a  change — a  pose 
much  favored  by  the  best  people  in  England. 
There  was  an  excellent  audience  of  the  secon- 
dary sex,  composed  of  proud  mothers  and  apolo- 
getic sisters,  whose  presence  was  necessitating  a 
sort  of  Jekyll  and  Hyde  attitude  on  the  part 
of  their  schoolboy  relatives,  who  were  endeavor- 
ing to  be  polite  to  their  "people"  and  at  the 
same  time  give  the  impression  to  their  confreres 
that  the  women  were  mere  acquaintances — acci- 
dental dinner  partners,  as  it  were. 

No  schoolboy  of  twelve  likes  to  admit  to  a 
mother. 

Surrounding  the  field  there  is  a  high  iron 
27 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

fence,  through  the  railings  of  which,  or  on  top, 
a  motley  collection  of  gamins  cheer  on  their 
wealthier  brethren  of  the  silk  hats.  Natm*ally 
no  notice  is  taken  of  these  uninvited  guests.  It 
is  quite  all  right  for  them  to  shout  for  West- 
minster if  it  gives  them  any  pleasure,  but  what 
has  a  silk  hat  in  common  with  a  red  kerchief  and 
a  slouch-cap? 

On  the  day  of  the  match  they  seemed  in 
larger  numbers  than  usual,  and  the  top  of  the 
fence  was  covered  with  urchins,  who  retained 
their  position  of  vantage  as  though  the  law  of 
gravitation  were  no  concern  of  theirs,  keeping 
up  a  shrill  chorus  as  Winchester  went  out  for  a 
moderate  score. 

With  the  odds  all  in  our  favor  we  went  in 
to  bat,  Grubbs,  the  captain,  and  I  leading  off. 
The  first  ball  was  wide,  but  to  feel  the  play  of 
my  muscles  I  took  a  perfunctory  swing  at  it 
with  my  bat.  The  effect  was  extraordinary. 
.  .  .  The  crowd  of  Cockney  youngsters  raised 
a  volume  of  sound  as  if  my  bat  had  been  r.  baton 
and  they  a  chorus. 

"Gow  it.  Pest!"  "That's  the  style.  Gloomy!" 
"Troy  t'  other 'bend,  Bluntnose!"  "Gee,  he's  got 

28 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

odd  socks  on!"  "Nah  then,  Spiderlegs!"  (The 
blunt  nose  and  the  legs  I  admit  to,  but  the 
accusation  of  odd  socks  was  pure  malice.) 

The  next  ball,  with  no  twist  at  all,  bowled 
me  clean,  and  I  walked  off  the  field  to  the  tune 
of  high-pitched  shrieks  of  dehght,  and  with  a 
face  that  flushed  a  dark  red.  My  place  was 
taken  by  Smith  tertius  (or  quartus),  whose  ap- 
pearance caused  an  even  greater  furore  than 
mine. 

"  'Ooray  for  Bones!"  greeted  the  lanky  youth 
as  he  emerged — "  'im  as  his  the  loife  of  the 
school!"  (He  was  the  most  morose  of  boys.) 
"  'I,  Bones,  'oo  did  you  crib  from  this  time,  eh?" 
(A  subtle  allusion  to  an  ancient  offense  which 
had  almost  earned  him  expulsion.) 

The  first  ball  came  for  Smith  with  an  inviting 
hop.  He  watched  it — went  to  strike  at  it — 
changed  his  mind — reconsidered  his  decision, 
and  swinig  at  the  air  as  the  ball  passed  over  the 
bails  by  an  inch,  a  feat  which  seemed  to  gratify 
our  enemies  on  the  fence  immensely. 

"Nah  then,  Bones,  non  o'  that  there  contor- 
tionizing!"     "  'It  the  ball,  Bones;  don't  miss  it!" 

And  he  did — a  miserable  little  pop  into  the 

29 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

air;  the  chap  in  the  slips  didn't  have  to  move  a 
foot  to  gather  it  in. 

Mr.  Smith  then  added  his  proof  that  Shake- 
speare was  right  when  he  said  in  this  world  we 
have  our  exits  and  our  entrances. 

The  next  six  batters  went  out  for  a  score  of 
eleven,  bowled  clean  by  the  most  intimate  vol- 
ume of  abusive  chaff  ever  endured  by  a  cricket 
team.  Skeletons  were  not  only  being  taken 
from  their  closets,  but  paraded  brazenly  before 
the  eyes  of  the  world.  The  secret  history  of 
Westminster  was  screamed  from  the  fence-tops. 

It  was  after  the  loss  of  our  eighth  wicket  that 
Grubbs  and  I,  who  had  stolen  round  by  the 
street,  stalked  and  discovered  their  ringleader. 

"That's  him,"  said  the  captain  hoarsely — the 
situation  was  too  tense  to  permit  of  the  niceties 
of  grammar.  I  followed  the  line  of  his  accusing 
finger — and  gasped.  There  was  no  mistaking 
those  gray  twinkling  eyes,  although  they  were 
almost  hidden  behind  a  huge  bandage,  pre- 
sumably for  mumps.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
rough  coster  suit,  with  a  villainous  cap  on  one 
side  of  his  head  and  a  bandit's  red  kerchief 
about  his  neck. 

30 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"It  is  him,"  I  said  dramatically. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Grubbs,  and  cleared  his 
throat.    "Norman,"  he  cried.    "Kid — Norman." 

The  young  rascal,  who  was  sitting  on  top  of  a 
post,  more  like  a  Puck  than  ever,  swiveled 
about  and  solemnty  winked  one  eye.  "Do  I  un- 
derstand that  the  ban  of  silence  is  lifted?"  he 
said  from  behind  the  mumps  bandage. 

Grubbs  considered,  and  then  made  a  tactful 
and  instantaneous  decision.  (Small  wonder 
that  a  few  j^ears  later  he  was  entrusted  with  a 
war  mission  to  Washington,  of  the  utmost  deli- 
cacy.) 

"You've  had  your  revenge,"  he  said,  "and  the 
joke  is  on  us.     Call  your  mob  off,  will  you?" 

"You're  quite  sure  you  wouldn't  like  us  to 
encourage  the  remainder  for  a  change?" 

"Quite  sure." 

"So  be  it,  my  captain." 

He  blew  a  whistle  through  his  fingers,  and  in 
a  moment  the  fence  was  denuded  of  mortals  like 
a  tree  smitten  by  an  autumn  gale.  The  Blower 
of  Bubbles  removed  his  bandage,  and  presented 
a  stocky  youth  with  three  shillings. 

31 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Buy  sweets  for  the  crowd,"  he  said,  "and 
mind — play  fair." 

"Right  you  har',  guv 'nor";  and  the  mob  dis- 
appeared. And  thus  ended  the  riot  of  the 
slouch-cap  against  the  silk  hat.  To-day,  if  you 
are  passing  the  field  during  a  match,  you  will 
see  that  the  gamins  are  still  there,  but  they  shout 
only  for  Westminster. 

We  were  just  turning  away,  when  Basil  Nor- 
man laid  his  hand  on  Grubbs's  forearm,  as  a 
girl  might  do,  and  his  eyes  had  a  wistful  look. 

"Before  I  change  into  more  fitting  garb,"  he 
said  airily,  then  paused.  .  .  .  My  breathing 
seemed  to  stop  at  the  sight — ^his  face  had  gone 
suddenly  white,  and  his  eyes  were  glazed. 

"Grubbs!"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  sounded 
hollow.  "Don't  you  understand?  .  .  .  Oh,  you 
damned  fool,  can't  you  see  it's  my  heart?" 


V 


After  Westminster  I  went  to  Cambridge,  and 
succeeded  in  cultivating  the  Oxford  manner,  by 
which  all  Cambridge  men  are  known.  When  I 
emerged   from   there    I    offered   myself   to   the 

32 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

highest  bidder  (a  sudden  bankruptcy  of  my 
father  having   made   an   occupation   essential). 

A  London  newspaper  was  the  fortunate  win- 
ner in  the  mad  race  for  my  services,  though  it 
would  have  been  difficult  for  it  to  lose,  as  there 
was  but  one  entry. 

I  became  a  writer  of  power — not  quite  so 
much  so  as  the  gentleman  to-day  who  wields 
his  pen  as  he  would  a  bludgeon,  and  succeeds  in 
writing  a  powerful  article  each  week;  but  still 
I  was  a  WTiter  of  strength.  I  damned  the  pres- 
ent, doubted  the  future,  and  deplored  the  past. 
I  became  an  honored  member  of  the  group  of 
London  writers  whose  entire  genius  is  ex- 
hausted in  criticism.  I  secured  a  bowing  ac- 
quaintance with  Bernard  Shaw,  and  always 
spoke  of  H.  G.  Wells  as  Mr.  Wells.  It  was 
obvious  to  me  that  to  achieve  hterary  success  in 
England  one  must  abuse  England — but  espe- 
cially any  one  who  tried  to  change  her. 

Some  of  my  confreres  sided  with  Bernard 
Shaw  and  attacked  middle-class  morality  and 
patriotism.  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett  had  a  certain 
following,  though  we  agreed  that  his  Five 
Towns  stories  were  not  really  critical,  but  merely 

33 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

observant.  We  did  not  know  at  the  tinie  that 
he  had  it  in  him  to  write  The  Pretty  Lady, 
which  was  to  be  neither.  For  myself,  I  was 
drawn  towards  Mr.  Wells,  and  hit  at  every- 
thing like  a  blindfolded  pugilist. 

We  agreed  with  Granville  Barker  that  Irving 
had  reduced  the  value  of  Shakespeare  by  over- 
staging;  and  we  endorsed  the  opinion  of  a  dra- 
matic critic,  known  to  the  public  as  "Jingle," 
who  said  that  Shakespeare's  lines  were  often 
worthy  of  an  Oxford  undergraduate. 

For  pastime  we  abused  Lord  Roberts  as  a 
monomaniac,  and  Winston  Churchill  as  a  klep- 
tomaniac with  a  passion  for  stealing  the  thunder 
of  others.  We  even  argued  that  the  Church 
had  lost  its  grip,  and  wrote  eloquently  on  the 
value  of  doubt.  With  admirable  esprit  de  corps 
we  refrained  from  attacking  the  public-school 
system,  though  we  realized  that  one  could  al- 
ways get  a  hearing  by  so  doing. 

And  every  year  those  schools  were  turning 
out  their  thousands  and  the  universities  their 
hundreds;  every  year  our  number  was  strength- 
ened by  well-routined  brains  that  took  to  de- 
structive criticism  like  a  German  to  barbarity, 

34 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Somebody  was  writing  our  puerile  dramas; 
some  one  was  producing  the  trash  which  flooded 
our  book-stalls;  some  brain  was  conceiving  the 
tawdry  stuff  which  was  educating  the  millions 
in  the  cinemas.  .  .  .  But  we  thanked  Heaven 
that  we  were  not  as  other  men.  We  were  Eng- 
land's educated  class.  For  the  education  of 
England  fails  to  teach  one  that  a  country's  art 
and  literature  are  as  vital  to  the  nation  as  speech 
to  the  individual. 

I  took  a  flat  in  Sloane  Square  and  read  Rus- 
sian novels.  Whenever  I  discovered  a  new 
Russian  author,  I  quoted  him  as  if  I  had  known 
him  all  my  life;  it  used  to  pain  me  to  find  how 
unrecognized  he  was  by  my  fellows.  I  attended 
the  opera  only  on  Russian  nights,  and  I  became 
a  devotee  of  the  Russian  dancers.  I  used  to 
quote  Russian  in  my  paper,  and  brought  down 
the  curse  of  a  hundred  typesetters  upon  my 
head. 

I  think  every  writer  has  his  Russian  period. 

Once  or  twice  I  heard  of  Basil  Norman, 
though  our  paths  did  not  cross.  Some  oije 
claimed  that  Norman  could  have  been  a  great 

violinist,  if Another  told  me  that  Punch 

35 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

had  published  a  dehcate  httle  sonnet  of  his  that 
had  the  quaHty  of  tears  about  it.     There  was 

no  question  (he  said),  if An  artist  I  met 

had  painted  one  landscape  that  defied  criticism 
— even  ours — and  I  spoke  of  the  exquisite  color- 
ing and  detail  of  the  foreground. 

"I  could  not  have  done  that,"  he  said,  "but  for 
Basil  Norman,  who  brooded  over  me  like  an 
inspiration.  The  work  is  mine,  but  the  concep- 
tion his.    If " 

Yet  the  world  did  not  know  of  his  existence. 
He  remained  a  detached  personality,  treading 
lightly  where  sorrow  was,  singing  his  song  of 
the  sunlight  wherever  ears  had  become  dulled 
with  discouragement.  A  fantastic,  gentle, 
twinkling-eyed  prinee  in  a  kingdom  of  butter- 
flies and  violets.  Try  as  I  would,  I  could  not 
refrain  from  contrasting  my  life  of  literary  vivi- 
section with  his  primrose  youth  that  seemed 
eternal,  springing  from  a  genuine  joy  in  living, 
a  youth  that  was  as  perfect  as  a  melody  of 
Chopin's. 

"The  happiest  of  Christmases,  old  Pest!" 

The  subject  of  my  thoughts  was  standing  be- 

36 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

fore  me,  and  the  bells  were  clamoring  exultantly 
on  the  frosty  air. 

I  gi'ipped  his  hand,  and  something  in  his  eyes 
told  me  the  truth.  .  .  .  He  had  come  for  me 
because  I  was  lonely  and  needed  him. 

And  the  message  of  the  bells  took  on  a  new 
meaning. 

VI 

We  walked  into  the  brisk,  vibrating  sunshine 
of  a  glorious  Christmas  morning.  He  had 
taken  my  arm,  and  was  chatting  gayly  on  every- 
thing from  "cabbages  to  kings."  Sometimes  his 
nostrils  dilated,  and  he  would  look  up  as  if  he 
were  actually  drinking  in  the  ozone  of  the  air; 
and  he  seemed  younger  than  ever,  with  a  joy- 
ousness  born  of  sheer  intoxication  with  life.  We 
walked  for  a  mile,  and  all  the  time  his  mood 
was  as  happy  and  stimulating  as  the  sunshine 
sparkling  in  the  December  air. 

Turning  down  a  street,  we  passed  a  church 
from  which  the  worshipers  were  emerging,  and 
a  mother  with  two  sons  on  the  brink  of  manhood 
held  our  attention  for  a  moment.  The  lads  had 
a  gentleness  of  feature,  an  unconscious  grace 

37 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

that  sometimes  is  the  attribute  of  adolescence, 
and  their  mother  walked  between  them,  proudly 
— they  were  her  masterpieces.  For  some  time 
Norman  chatted  amiably,  but  I  could  see  that 
a  pensive  shadow  was  steadily  creeping  over  the 
brilliancy  of  his  spirits. 

"They  tell  me,"  he  said  in  subdued  tones, 
breaking  suddenly  from  the  topic  in  hand,  "that 
both  my  parents  hoped  for  a  girl  when  I  was 
born.  And  sometimes  I  have  thought  that  there 
is  a  little  of  the  feminine  in  my  nature.  I 
love  the  pretty  things  of  life,  and  there  are  times 
when  I  have  an  unmistakable  sense  of  intuition." 

I  waited  silently,  but  it  was  some  moments  be- 
fore he  resumed. 

"Somewhere  ahead,"  he  said  dreamily,  "in 
months  or  years  to  come,  I  see  a  vision  of  a 
woman  in  black,  coming  from  church  alone,  and 

her  head  is  bowed  with  grief "     He  passed 

his  hand  over  his  brow  with  a  weary,  querulous 
movement,  and  shadows  appeared  beneath  his 
eyes.  "V^Tiere — where  are  the  two  sons?  Not 
dead?" 

He  smiled  wistfully  and  replaced  his  hand  in 
my  arm. 

38 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"The  picture  we  saw  just  now,"  he  said,  "is 
my  conception  of  England — the  real  England 
of  noble  mothers  and  noble  sons.  But  some- 
thing tells  me  that  the  woman  in  black  is  Eng- 
land too,  mourning  for  her  sons  who  will  never 
— come  back." 

With  an  effort  he  squared  his  shoulders  and 
forced  a  laugh  from  his  lips. 

"Pest!"  he  cried,  "I  should  be  burned  as  a 
witch.  Heigho!  it's  a  pretty  go  when  one  has 
to  turn  lugubrious  on  a  Christmas  morning. 
Cheer  us  up.  Pest.  Tell  me  about  yourself — 
w^hom  you  are  in  love  with,  and  your  dreams 
for  the  days  to  come.  Let's  blow  bubbles — 
shall  we? — and  see  what  fresh  beauties  we  can 
find  in  this  charming  adventure  called  life!" 

And  I  laughed  with  him,  exchanging  philoso- 
phies light  as  air;  but  the  chimes  that  rang  out 
all  about  us  had  still  another  meaning.  There 
was  a  warning  in  the  pealing  discords  that 
broke  on  the  quiet  air;  there  was  a  requiem  in 
the  notes  that  lingered  like  an  echo,  then  mur- 
mured ominously  to  silence. 

I  shivered  as  though  I  had  a  chill,  for  some- 
thing of  Norman's  spirit  had  seized  me,  and  I 

39 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

felt  that  both  the  warning  and  the  requiem  were 
— for  England. 

VII 

At  the  head  of  a  stairway  which  one  reached 
by  going  through  a  tobacconist's,  Herr  Klotz 
greeted  us  with  guttural  cordiality.  We  asked 
after  his  wife,  and  were  told  that  she  was  a  little 
better,  though  very  weak,  and  had  insisted  upon 
seeing  her  guests  before  they  left,  if  they  would 
be  so  kind  as  to  visit  the  sickroom. 

On  the  contents  of  an  enormous  hamper  sent 
from  "Arcadia"  (and,  I  am  certain,  paid  for  by 
Norman)  the  German  and  the  two  of  us  lunched 
with  all  the  bonhomie  of  bohemians.  Basil 
Norman  was  in  the  best  of  spirits,  so  much  so, 
in  fact,  that  Klotz  was  constantly  overcome  with 
laughter,  and  on  three  occasions  was  forced  to 
rush  away  to  acquaint  his  wife  "mit  der  amuz- 
ing  veet  of  zee  altogedderillustrious  Herr  Nor- 
man." 

By  no  means  least  in  importance,  Klotz's  little 
son  of  about  four  years  of  age  sat  in  a  high  chair 
and  chuckled  knowingly  whenever  he  deemed 
the   humor   had    reached    a   necessary    climax. 

40 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Though  he  was  not  unlike  his  father  in  the 
shape  of  his  head,  his  chin  did  not  recede,  and 
one  could  only  assume  the  mother  had  supplied 
the  qualities  lacking  in  the  father.  Never  for 
a  moment  did  the  child  lose  interest  in  the  pro- 
ceedings; he  followed  throughout  the  facial  ex- 
pression and  the  play  of  conversation  of  his 
elders.  His  face  interested  me  so  intensely  that 
I  found  myself  glancing  at  him  whenever  his  in- 
terest in  the  others  gave  me  a  chance;  there  was 
so  much  of  promise  and  heredity  about  him. 

"And  what,"  I  said,  during  a  momentary  lull 
in  the  merriment,  "is  Master  Siegfried  to  be- 
come?" We  had  learned  his  name  a  moment 
before. 

"Siegfried,"  said  his  father,  "tell  zee  gentle- 
mens  vot  you  to  be  already  intend." 

The  little  chap  smiled,  but  without  self-con- 
sciousness. "A  conducthtor,"  he  lisped,  "like 
Herr  Nikith." 

Klotz  crossed  his  hands  upon  his  ample  waist- 
coat and  beamed  paternally. 

"Your  baton  bring,"  he  said,  "und  der  score 
Tristan/' 

With  profuse  apologies  for  this  display  of 

41 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

juvenile  precocity,  the  violinist  hurried  after  the 
boy,  and  reentered  a  moment  later  with  his  violin 
and  a  music-stand,  which  he  proceeded  to  set  up. 

Siegfried  followed  close  on  his  heels  with  the 
full  orchestral  score  of  the  last  act  of  Tristan  and 
Isolde,  which  almost  obscured  him  from  sight. 
Placing  it  on  the  stand,  he  retired  in  a  dignified 
manner;  and  Herr  Klotz,  taking  a  chair,  seated 
himself  at  the  left  of  the  stand,  and  proceeded 
to  tune  his  fiddle  to  pitch,  varying  the  proceed- 
ings with  imitations  of  French-horns,  vagrant 
clarionets,  and  irresponsible  trombones  in  the 
melange  of  discord  which  always  precedes  the 
entrance  of  the  conductor.  Norman,  who  had 
been  enjoying  the  scene  to  the  full,  suddenly  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"Herr  Klotz,"  he  said  sternly,  "I  protest." 

The  tuning  ceased,  and  the  violinist  looked 
anxiously  at  his  guest.  "You  do  not  like  dis, 
zumtimes?"  he  faltered. 

"I  object,"  cried  Basil,  "to  being  left  out. — 
Herr  Siegfried!"  He  raised  his  voice.  "Herr 
Siegfried!" 

The  little  chap  walked  solemnly  in,  a  baton  in 
his  hand.    "Yeth?"  he  said. 

42 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

''Mein  Ilerr,  my  friend  and  myself  desire  to 
join  your  orchestra." 

The  youthful  conductor  considered,  ruminat- 
ingly.    "You  blay  goot?"  he  said. 

"Wonderfully.  I  was  comb-and-tissue-paper- 
player  in  the  Cascade  Steam  Laundry  Orchestra, 
and  my  friend " 

"He  ith  goot  alzo?" 

"Pest,  speak  for  yourself." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  "Far  be  it  from  me 
to  brag,"  I  said,  rather  lamely,  "but  I  was  first 
violinist  to  His  Majesty  the  King  of  Diddle- 
doodledums." 

"Ah,  yes,"  cried  Norman;  "and  you  were  dis- 
missed because  of  your  unfortunate  habit  of  play- 
ing an  octave  flat."  He  leaned  over  and  put  his 
lips  to  Siegfried's  ear.  "Let  him  play  the  drums," 
he  said  in  a  stage  whisper. 

Amidst  roars  of  delight  from  the  older  Klotz, 
the  youngster  left  the  room,  and  returned  in  a 
minute's  time,  carrying  an  immense  tin  dishpan 
and  a  broken  broom-handle,  which  musical  im- 
pedimenta he  entrusted  to  my  tender  mercies, 
and  then  sedately  stalked  from  the  scene  once 
more.    With  mixed  emotions  I  carried  my  pan 

43 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

and  stick  over  to  the  extreme  right,  and  placed 
a  chair  beneath  the  spot  where  the  stage-box 
would  be,  calmly  surveying  the  assumed  audience 
with  that  look  of  waggish  melancholy  one  asso- 
ciates with  gentlemen  of  the  drums.  Norman, 
whom  Klotz  had  armed  with  the  combined  in- 
gredients of  his  instrument,  placed  a  chair  half- 
way between  the  conductor's  stand  and  myself, 
and  together  we  joined  Herr  Klotz  in  a  two- 
minutes'  orgy  of  discordant  preparation.  With 
a  desire  to  increase  the  variety  of  my  percussion 
effects,  I  conscripted  an  extra  chair  into  service, 
placed  it  back  towards  me,  and  prepared  to  use 
my  cane  as  an  auxiliary  drumstick. 

By  common  consent  we  achieved  a  moment's 
unanimity  of  silence,  which  was  seized  by  Herr 
Siegfried  as  the  auspicious  moment  for  his  en- 
trance. Without  the  least  loss  of  dignity  he 
clambered  onto  his  chair,  as  we  applauded,  per- 
functorily, by  hammering  our  alleged  music- 
stands  with  non-existent  bows;  and,  turning  to 
the  audience,  he  bowed  with  the  restraint  of 
genius — a  feat  of  condescension  which  appeared 
to  delight  the  throng  hugely,  for  he  was  con- 
strained to  turn  about  and  acknowledge  their 

44 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

plaudits  a  second  time  before  they  would  allow 
him  to  proceed. 

As  drummer  I  assumed  an  air  of  morose  bore- 
dom. 

The  noise  of  the  audience  having  subsided,  the 
conductor  opened  his  score  and  nodded  to  his 
Conccrtmeister,  Herr  Klotz,  who  carefully 
found  the  required  place  in  the  orchestration. 

"Blay  der  'Liebestod'  music,"  said  he  in  his 
most  professional  manner  to  us.  We  nodded 
knowingly,  and  found  the  required  part  in  the 
last  act  of  our  scores,  after  turning  over  a  vast 
number  of  visionary  pages. 

"Do  we  begin  at  the  beginning?"  asked  Norman. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "and  leave  off  at  the  end." 
After  which  sally  I  laughed  immoderately,  and 
began  to  understand  the  instinct  which  causes  a 
humorist  to  enjoy  his  own  wit  more  than  any 
other's. 

A  rap  on  the  stand  brought  my  mirth  to  a 
close.  Both  arms  were  extended  in  the  air — a 
last  look  at  both  sides  of  the  orchestra  (there 
must  have  been  a  hundred  of  us )  — the  left  hand 
slowly  poised  to  indicate  "piano" — the  right 
hand  gently  raised — and  then  the  strings  were 

45 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

brought  into  action.  I  had  intended,  as  another 
excellent  jest,  to  give  a  tremendous  crash  on  the 
pan  at  the  start,  so  as  to  bring  down  the  leader's 
wrath,  but  something  in  the  little  chap's  attitude 
stopped  me.  This  was  not  play  to  him — it  was 
real;  and,  to  my  amazement,  it  seemed  no  less 
vivid  to  my  fellow-burlesquers.  Herr  Klotz  was 
playing  the  chromatic  development  of  the  open- 
ing as  if  it  had  been  Covent  Garden  and  the  real 
Nikisch  conducting.  The  Blower  of  Bubbles  was 
giving  one  more  proof  of  his  amazing  versatility. 
In  some  manner  he  was  imitating  a  cello,  and  he 
knew  the  music.  Where  he  had  learned  it  one 
could  only  conjecture — but  when  did  he  learn 
anything  ? 

Silently  I  watched  the  serio-comic  develop- 
ment. The  boy  was  conducting  remarkably,  with 
unerring  artistry,  sustaining  the  exact  Wagner- 
ian tempi,  and,  with  little  exaggeration,  indicat- 
ing the  crescendo  and  diminuendo  which  colors 
all  the  great  master's  composition.  How  much 
of  it  he  knew  or  whether  he  was  following  his 
father's  violin  I  could  not  make  out,  but  his  earn- 
estness fascinated  me;  and  suddenly  his  eyes 
turned  towards  mine.     I  gripped  the  broom- 

46 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

handle — but  no,  it  was  merely  a  warning  that 
my  time  was  imminent.  I  think  my  breath  came 
short  as  I  waited.  Then  his  eyes  sought  mine 
once  more,  and  inclining  towards  me,  his  baton 
called  for  the  drums.  It  was  I  he  was  conduct- 
ing, and  no  one  else !  And  I  vibrated  the  broom- 
handle  against  the  dish-pan,  only  to  stop  in- 
stantaneously as  his  baton  moved  to  subtler  in- 
struments. He  never  failed  to  warn  me  with  that 
preliminary  glance,  and  when  the  magic  wand 
followed  I  gave  him  all  I  had.  The  little  beggar 
was  a  hypnotist. 

Towards  the  climax  I  could  have  sworn  the 
whole  orchestra  was  there.  Klotz  was  playing 
superbly,  and  Norman  was  roaming  from  one  in- 
strument to  the  other  with  a  remarkable  combina- 
tion of  accuracy  and  imitative  versatility.  As  for 
me,  I  supplied  dynamic  effects  that  would  have 
satisfied  even  the  gi'eat  Beethoven,  who  once 
asked  for  guns. 

Then  it  was  over. 

Herr  Siegfried  bowed  twice  to  the  audience, 
indicated  his  entire  orchestra  with  an  all-embrac- 
ing wave  of  the  baton,  and  ended  by  solemnly* 
shaking  hands  with  his  father,  who  stood  up  to 

47 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

accept  the  honor.  After  that,  with  a  self-con- 
scious wriggle,  he  became  the  boy  once  more,  and 
removed  his  spell  from  us.  With  roars  of  delight 
we  gathered  about  him,  making  a  circle  by  join- 
ing hands,  and  dancing  extempore,  we  sang  a 
chorus  consisting  of  constant  repetitions  of 
"Hilee-hilo!  Hilee-hilo!"  That  may  not  be  the 
correct  spelling,  but  then  we  were  singing,  not 
writing  it — which  is  one  advantage  music  has 
over  literature. 

Before  we  went,  Herr  Klotz  took  us  into  the 
room  where  his  wife  lay  ill,  and  by  her  eyes — for 
she  was  too  weak  to  speak — she  thanked  us  for 
our  part  in  making  the  day  a  festival  one  for  their 
lonely  little  household.  With  an  instinctive  gen- 
tleness that  a  woman  might  have  shown,  Norman 
spoke  of  the  things  she  wanted  to  hear  about: 
how  her  husband  had  been  missed  at  the  restaur- 
ant, of  the  desire  of  every  one  to  make  a  little 
present  to  them,  of  the  great  future  that  lay  be- 
fore their  son,  and  of  the  genius  of  Herr  Klotz 
that  would  some  day  be  recognized.  With  the 
cheeriest  of  good-byes,  he  lightly  touched  her 
shoulder  with  his  hand  and  said  he  knew  she 
would  soon  be  well  again. 

48 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

He  lied.  In  half  of  what  he  said  he  lied.  He 
was  blowing  bubbles  that  the  woman  stricken 
with  fever  might  see  in  them  some  little  compen- 
sation for  her  life  of  drudgery. 

With  the  guttural  good  wishes  of  Herr  Klotz 
still  in  our  ears  (we  had  pledged  eternal  friend- 
ship in  three  foaming  mugs  of  beer),  we  sought 
the  street,  to  find  that  dusk  was  settling  o\^er  the 
city.  For  some  moments  neither  spoke,  but  feel- 
ing that  perhaps  I  had  descended  too  abruptly 
from  my  pedestal,  I  cleared  my  throat  and  ven- 
tured on  a  remark. 

"A  decent  fellow,"  I  said  patronizingly,  and 
felt  my  dignity  reasserting  myself;  but  Norman 
failed  to  hear  me.  He  was  lost  in  some  memory. 
Now  that  I  look  back,  I  wonder  was  it  the  picture 
of  the  sick  woman  he  saw  or  his  vision  of  the 
mother  with  her  two  sons ;  or,  with  his  gift  of  in- 
tuition, could  he  see,  less  than  a  year  ahead, 
Klotz,  in  a  German  soldier's  uniform,  marching 
through  Belgium  with  an  army  of  lust  and  rap- 
ine, gorged  like  gluttonous,  venomous  beasts? 

I  wonder. 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

VIII 

It  was  from  an  aunt  of  mine  that  I  first  heard 
of  Norman's  attachment  to  Lilias  Oxley. 

Whenever  I  received  a  letter  from  my  relative, 
I  had  first  to  realize  that  its  mission  was  to  edu- 
cate, not  to  entertain.  She  was  a  woman  of 
strong  ideas,  and,  as  my  mother  died  very  early 
in  my  life,  she  seldom  lost  an  opportunity  of  im- 
pressing a  moral — like  the  Queen  in  Alice  in 
Wonderland.  In  her  correspondence,  and  to  a 
large  extent  in  her  conversation,  my  aunt  was 
given  to  dashes,  underlines,  and  exclamation- 
marks.  It  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  state  that 
she  was  a  single  woman. 

I  received  the  letter  two  months  after  Christ- 
mas; it  was  dated  from  the  Beacon  at  Hindhead. 

"My  dear  Nephew, — You  will  find  menthol- 
ated crystals — carried  in  a  small  bottle — a  splen- 
did preventive  against  the  present  epidemic  of 
cold  in  the  head !  Sniff  a  little  every  night  before 
going  to  bed. 

"When  are  you  going  to  marry?    For  good- 

50 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

ness'  sake,  marry  a  dark  girl  when  you  do.  Our 
family  is  growing  positively  colorless! 

"Your  friend,  Mr.  Norman,  is  visiting  the 
Oxleys  down  here.  It  seems  young  Oxley  is  try- 
ing to  write  a  play  with  some  ideas  in  it,  and  Nor- 
man thinks  he  can  help  him !  Who  in  the  world 
wants  to  see  a  play  with  their  ideas !  It's  a  pity 
you  couldn't  teach  him  to  do  something  useful — 
Norman,  I  mean. — Young  Oxley  is  going  into 
the  Church !  Why  doesn't  he  go  to  Canada !  I 
mean  Norman. 

"Do  you  remember  little  Lilias  Oxley?  She 
had  pneumonia  last  year,  though  I  warned  her 
mother  about  flannel  soaked  in  goose-oil  and  tur- 
pentine I  She  always  looked  like  a  hothouse 
flower,  and  now  she  is  simply  frail.  Of  course, 
she's  pretty  and  has  eyes  that  always  makes  fools 
of  the  men — not  that  that  signifies !  Everybody 
says  she's  artistic,  but  all  I  ever  hear  her  play  is 
by  some  newfangled  foreigner  named  Debussy, 
and  it's  all  discord.  She's  only  nineteen  and 
looks  sixteen. 

"Of  course,  young  Norman  comes  along,  and 
instead  of  picking  out  some  healthy  hiuvom  girl, 
he  falls  in  love  with  this  bit  of  tinsel  china!   It's 

51 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

criminal,  and  should  not  be  allowed.  What  kind 
of  children  will  they  have,  if  any!  He  calls  her 
his  Beatrice — Heaven  knows  why! 

"They  are  together  coTistantly.  I  would  write 
to  the  Times  about  it  if  I  thought  that  Lord 
Xorthfellow  would  publish  it.  We  should  have  a 
Minister  of  Eugenics!  Surely  Winston  Church- 
ill would  be  better  employed  at  that  than  trying 
to  build  up  a  huge  navy  we'll  never  need !  By  the 
way,  I  see  he's  taken  to  writing  novels  now! 

"Do  talk  to  young  Norman!  Tell  him  your 
uncle  is  doing  very  well  with  pigs  in  Canada; 
and  why  not  induce  your  friend  to  go  there,  and 
get  some  common-sense,  because  every  Canadian 
I  meet  has  a  head  on  his  shoulders?  It  must  be 
the  climate! 

"I  am  going  to  stay  here  for  a  month,  and  then 
visit  my  cousin  in  Scotland.  She  has  six  chil- 
dren. Whatever  induced  her  to  marry  a  minister? 
He  has  no  money  and  no  prospects — except  more 
children,  I  suppose! 

"Does  that  Mulvaney  woman  see  that  your 
room  is  kept  aired?  When  you  write  you  should 
have  the  window  open  and  a  cap  on  your  head. 

52 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"I  hope  you  will  never  write  books !  It  is  quite 
a  distinction  nowadays  not  to. 

"Where  did  you  go  for  Christmas? — Your  lov- 
ing aunt,  Hannah, 

'Teby.  8/1914." 

The  only  way  I  can  account  for  my  aunt's  love 
of  exclamation-marks  was  her  delight  at  seeing  a 
sentence  round  to  a  good  finish.  I  have  known 
authors  to  be  so  overcome  with  the  dramatic 
significance  of  their  work  that  they  put  them  in 
as  a  sort  of  public  recognition  thereof. 

En  passant.  ...  I  wonder  why  my  aunt  never 
wrote  a  serial  story  for  one  of  the  London  dailies. 


IX 

War. 

Our  world  of  artificiality  lay  like  a  cracked 
eggshell.  As  drowning  men,  we  clutched  at 
everything  that  seemed  stable  ...  to  find  noth- 
ing that  was  not  made  of  perishable  stuff.  Our 
pens  that  had  criticized  so  long  mocked  us  as 
we  gazed  at  the  pages  which  seemed  to  reject  our 
thoughts  before  we  gave  them  life.    A  few  of  us 

53 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

turned  into  special  war  writers  and  comforted  the 
nation  with  statistics.  We  showed  that  Germany- 
was  beaten — it  was  a  mathematical  truth  that 
could  be  proved.  While  we  demonstrated  our 
immense  superiority  to  the  enemy  in  figures,  a 
little  British  Army  was  fighting  against  odds  of 
six  to  one. 

And  the  Fates  stood  by  with  poised  shears, 
ready  to  cut  the  thread  of  Britain's  destiny. 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  recall  the  arraignment  of 
the  year  1914.  The  Boer  War  had  shown  our 
weakness  to  every  nation  but  ourselves ;  our  edu- 
cated men  had  graduated  into  the  world  using 
their  abilities  as  obstructionists.  We  had  dis- 
couraged everything  that  had  the  very  odor  of 
progress. 

Yet — we  muddled  through.  Men  still  use  that 
word  as  if  it  were  something  creditable  instead  of 
hideous.  We  won,  because,  behind  the  Britain 
that  muddled  and  obstructed,  there  was  the  Brit- 
ain of  noble  mothers  and  noble  sons. 

And  into  the  first  winter  our  orgy  of  statistics 
went  on,  like  an  endless  Babylonian  feast  .  .  . 
while  the  British  fleet — which  we  should  never 
need — strained  and  plunged  in  the  icy  gales  of 

54 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

the  North  Sea,  grimly,  silently,  saving  the  world 
for  Civilization. 

Great  days.    Fateful  days.    Terrible  days. 

One  Friday  night  early  in  December  I  re- 
ceived a  note  from  Norman,  asking  me  to  meet 
him  for  dinner  at  "Arcadia."  I  had  not  seen  him 
for  six  months,  but  his  debonair  charm  was  as 
potent  as  ever,  and  we  chatted  of  the  past  like 
friends  who  had  not  met  for  years.  As  if  by 
mutual  consent,  we  avoided  the  present  until  I 
noticed  that  the  orchestra  was  different. 

"Where  is  Klotz?"  I  asked  suddenly. 

"Gone." 

"Where?" 

"To  the  war.  He  was  a  German  reservist  and 
got  away." 

"And  his  wife?" 

*'She  is  confined  to  her  bed  all  the  time,  but 
fortunately  there  is  an  excellent  woman  looking 
after  her  and  young  Siegfried.  By  the  way,  what 
a  conductor  he'll  make  some  day!" 

By  the  subterfuge  I  knew  who  was  paying  for 
the  woman,  though  his  income  was  always  slen- 
der. Stimulated  by  a  British-born  orchestra  that 
played  with  a  respectability  beyond  question,  we 

55 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

pursued  bubbles  of  conversation  for  half-an- 
hour,  saying  many  clever  things  and  arriving  at 
no  conclusions ;  but  both  of  us  knew  that,  behind 
the  badinage,  there  was  the  consciousness  of  war 
gripping  our  brains  like  a  fever. 

"What  do  you  think,"  I  said  at  last,  "of  the 
question  of  enlisting?"  It  would  have  been  a 
mockery  to  deny  the  fever  any  longer. 

"Why  should  I  enlist?"  His  smile  was  so  dis- 
arming that  I  regretted  my  move  at  once. 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,"  I  said  hastily. 
"You  are  not  needed,  and  you  never  will  be.  Be- 
sides  "  My  voice  trailed  off  into  the  insin- 
cere platitudes  that  always  come  to  the  lips  when 
conscience  is  to  be  drugged. 

He  lit  a  cigarette.  "Pest,"  he  said,  "most  men 
are  participants  in  life;  a  few,  like  myself,  are 
onlookers.  It  was  my  choice  when  I  was  a  mere 
youngster — wisely  or  not,  I  do  not  know — but 
the  pose  has  become  reality  now.  I  am  a  jester 
at  the  court  of  the  world,  a  wordy  fellow  with  a 
touch  of  melancholy  in  his  humor,  watching  and 
commenting  on  the  real  things  of  life.  Before 
there  was  a  war  I  blew  bubbles,  and  now  I  am  fit 
for  nothing  else.    Have  a  cigarette?" 

56 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Thanks." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow  with  the 
same  weariness  I  had  noticed  before. 

"To  gaze  on  life,"  he  went  on  after  a  pause, 
"and  not  to  live  it,  spares  one  many  sorrows. 
Even  love,  which  comes  to  most  men  as  an  over- 
whelming passion,  stole  into  my  life  like  a  per- 
fume of  Cashmere.  When  I  was  twelve  years  of 
age  and  living  on  the  south  coast,  I  used  to  pass 
a  little  dream-girl  of  seven  years  or  so.  The 
purity  of  her  face  stayed  with  me  like  a  .melody 
a  mother  sings  to  her  child.  Then  she  was  ill, 
and  for  three  weeks  I  never  saw  her.  Finally 
she  came  one  day  in  a  chair,  and  her  beauty  was 
the  most  exquisite  thing  I  had  ever  seen.  It 
made  me  think  that  the  God  who  gave  us  this 
beautiful  world  sometimes  cherishes  a  soul  as 
sweet  as  hers  and  keeps  it  in  a  body  that  is  frail, 
so  that  through  life  He  can  watch  it  like  a  flower, 
tenderly,  lovingly;  .  .  .  and  when  He  wants  it 
back  again  He  has  but  to  whisper,  and,  like  a 
violet  bending  to  a  summer  breeze,  it  hears  and 
obeys.  ...  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  even 
tears  shed  for  such  a  one  have  in  them  the  quality 

57 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

of  dew,  and  serve  to  keep  the  memory  green  and 
pleasant. 

"The  next  day  I  brought  her  a  rose.  Though 
we  had  never  spoken,  she  took  it,  and  gave 
me  her  face  to  kiss.  ...  I  lost  my  mother  when 
I  was  very  young,  but  this  dream-girl's  kiss  sup- 
plied that  inspiration  for  the  ideal  that  a  child 
takes  from  its  mother.  I  could  not  have  been  im- 
pure after  that — I  could  not  have  been  unkind. 
The  next  day  she  was  gone,  and  I  never  saw  her 
again  until  I  went  to  Surrey  to  visit  young  Ox- 
ley.    She  was  his  sister." 

''And  you  found?" 

"That  the  dream-child  had  become  a  woman — 
the  charm  of  Spring  had  softened  to  the  witchery 
of  Summer." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  relit  his  ciga- 
rette, which  had  gone  out. 

"That,  my  dear  Pest,  is  how  love  came  to  me." 

I  frowned  in  an  endeavor  to  pierce  his  appar- 
ently superficial  dismissal  of  the  subject. 

"Don't  you  intend  to  marry  her?"  I  said. 

"Marry  her?"  He  laughed,  but  there  was  lit- 
tle mirth  in  the  sound.  "Does  a  jester  marry?" 
His  eyes  hardened,  and  there  was  a  new  ring  to 

58 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

his  voice.  "Who  am  I  to  take  a  wife?  A  poseur, 
a  flaneur,  in  a  world  of  men,  I  stand  discredited 
beside  the  poorest  workman  whose  toil  brings  in 
a  pittance  for  his  wife  and  kiddies.  England  is 
calling  for  men — for  men,  I  say."  He  brought 
his  fist  with  a  crash  on  the  table.  "What  can  I 
offer  her — my  parlor  accomplishments?  My 
minstrel's  mummery  that  shudders  at  the  sight  of 
a  sword?  Can  I  blow  bubbles  in  a  world  where 
hearts  are  breaking?" 

There  were  tears  in  his  voice,  but  his  eyes  were 
flashing  furiously. 

"Hexcuse  me."  A  man  had  stepped  up  to  us, 
wearing  the  armlet  of  a  recruit.  His  face  was 
oddly  familiar,  but  I  could  not  recall  it  until  a 
light  was  switched  on  just  behind  him,  and  I 
recognized  the  pumpkin-faced  man  of  Christmas 
Eve. 

"I  just  thought  of  'ow  I'd  like  for  to  tell  you 
as  I've  been  took  for  the  Army  O.K." 

We  shook  his  hand  and  wished  him  the  best  of 
luck. 

"Funny  thing,  sir,  as  'ow  the  'ole  bloomin' 
time  I  was  planning  to  sign  hup  I  was  a-thinkin' 
of  you  and  that  there  fiddle.    'You  wouldn't  like 

59 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

to  meet  'im,'  I  kind  o'  sez  to  myself,  'and  you  not 
in  the  harmy,  you  wouldn't,'  I  sez." 

"Instead  of  which,"  smiled  Norman,  all  trace 
of  his  intensity  gone,  "I  am  the  one  who  is  the 
slacker." 

"But  didn't  I  see  you  in  the  line  the  day  we  was 
going  for  to  join  hup?" 

Norman  laughed.  "I  was  probably  a  hundred 
miles  away,"  he  said.    "Pest,  have  I  a  double?" 

The  recruit  scratched  his  head.  "I  could  'a 
sworn  hit  was  you,"  he  said,  and  launched  into  a 
graphic  description  of  drill  and  the  absurdities 
thereof,  a  recital  which  appeared  to  have  no 
prosnect  of  an  ending  until  we  were  interrupted 
by  the  restaurant  proprietor,  who  took  Norman 
to  one  side  for  a  consultation  concerning  the 
medieval  cook. 

I  felt  a  hand  on  my  arm  and  turned  to  see  our 
friend  of  the  pumpkin  face  making  secret  and 
terrifying  signs  for  me  to  lend  him  my  ear. 

"  'E's  a-'iding  something,"hewhisperedhoarse- 
ly.  "I  ain't  been  a  chandlery  merchant  hall  my 
life,  wot  does  most  o'  'is  business  hon  tick,  with- 
out hit  learning  me  to  remember  faces.  Hit 
were  'im.    'E  was  turned  down  for  a  bad  'eart!" 

60 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Whereupon  he  made  a  semi-mystic  sign  with 
his  thmnb  and  forefinger  to  indicate  that  the 
whole  affair  was  a  secret  between  gentlemen. 

That  night,  in  bed,  the  sensitive,  delicate  fea- 
tures of  Basil  Norman  remained  in  my  memory. 
I  had  surprised  his  secret  which  he  would  admit 
to  no  one ;  not  to  the  girl  he  loved ;  not  to  himself. 
It  was  the  same  spirit  that  had  made  him  defy 
the  whole  of  Westminster.  We  had  called  him 
Puck  and  the  Blower  of  Bubbles,  and  he  himself 
had  said  he  was  lighter  than  air.  .  .  .  But  Basil 
Norman's  life  had  been  one  endless  battle  with 
an  indomitable  soul  that  refused  to  yield  to  the 
body. 

I  could  not  sleep  well  that  night. 

X 

I  did  not  meet  Basil  Norman  for  nearly  four 
years.  I  joined  the  Artists'  Rifles  early  in  1915, 
fought  for  eleven  months,  and  was  given  a  com- 
mission. After  a  short  time  in  England  I  went 
out  in  all  the  glory  of  a  Sam  Browne  and  one 
star,  but  in  a  few  months  I  was  wounded  in  the 
chest,  which  earned  me  Blighty  and  a  surfeit  of 

61 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Aunt  Hannah,  who  still  contended  that  had  we 
only  concentrated  on  an  army  instead  of  a 
navy 

As  I  write,  it  all  seems  a  blurred  memory  of 
colorless  monotony,  mud,  fatigue,  death,  and 
grim  humor.  In  January,  1918,  after  a  term  of 
duty  as  musketry  instructor,  I  returned  to 
France,  and  fought  through  the  horrible  spring 
battles  until,  with  cruel  coincidence,  I  was 
wounded  again  in  the  same  place,  and  once  more 
came  to  England  with  a  bullet  in  my  chest — a 
bullet  they  dared  not  extract.  In  September  I 
was  discharged. 

One  morning  in  November  I  sat  by  the  fire  in 
my  den  at  Sloane  Square.  I  had  resumed  the, 
tenancy  of  the  rooms,  and  Mrs.  Mulvaney  looked 
upon  me  as  being  even  less  mature  than  before, 
warning  me  about  goloshes  when  it  was  wet,  and 
umbrellas  when  it  wasn't,  but  appeared  likely  to 
be. 

How  long  I  sat  there  I  do  not  know,  but 
memory  began  to  weave  its  spell,  driving  my  sur- 
roundings into  a  dim  obscurity  and  bringing  back 
incidents  of  the  past  with  vivid  clarity.  I  gripped 
my  head  with  both  hands,  and,  for  the  hundredth 

62 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

time,  sought  the  truth  that  lay  buried  in  the  holo- 
caust of  the  nations.  .  .  .  My  wound  hurt  again, 
and  a  dizziness  crept  over  me  like  a  fog  that  rises 
from  the  sea  and  enshrouds  the  land. 

Futile.  .  .  .  Futile.  .  .  . 

Had  some  one  spoken?  The  words  sounded 
distinctly.  ...  I  could  have  sworn  I  heard  them. 

Was  the  whole  war  a  dream,  or  was  it  real? 
Once  more  I  was  in  Sloane  Square ;  there  was  my 
desk  with  its  litter  of  papers,  my  pipe-rack,  my 
books.  .  .  .  Had  I  ever  left  them?  Could  it  be 
true  that  I  had  led  m.en  against  machine-gun  fire 
— and  that  I  had  killed?  Were  those  boys  who 
died  beside  me,  smiling  like  children  in  their  sleep, 
really  dead  ?  Was  it  all  some  hideous  fantasy  of 
an  unhealthy  brain — a  gigantic  charade  invented 
by  the  greatest  buffoon  of  all  time  ? 

Futile.  .  .  .  Futile.  .  .  .  Futile. 

I  cursed,  and  pressed  my  brow  with  my  hands. 
It  was  a  fight  for  sanity,  as  so  many  men  have 
fought  in  the  solitude  of  their  rooms  since  the 
hell  of  Flanders. 

Like  a  panorama  the  events  of  the  war  crossed 
my  mind,  and  yet  those  that  stood  out  most  clear- 
ly were  the  unimportant  things  that  came  as  mere 

63 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

incidents  during  the  unfolding  of  the  world's 
destiny.  The  senior  chaplain's  dog,  which  was 
shot  by  an  A.P.JNI.  and  mourned  by  a  whole  divi- 
sion .  .  .  the  new  arrival  who  thought  he  was  a 
special  charge  of  the  Lord's,  and  who  persisted 
in  looking  over  the  top  during  the  day — we  buried 
him  next  morning  .  .  .  the  night  that  the  female 
impersonator  from  a  divisional  concert-party 
lured  the  colonel  into  amorous  confession  .  .  . 
the  little  chap  who  got  no  mail  at  Christmas,  and 
said  he  hadn't  received  a  letter  for  two  years  .  .  . 
one  after  the  other  these  human  trivialities 
coursed  through  my  brain,  forcing  the  vaster  is- 
sues aside. 

From  no  apparent  cause,  the  strain  of  reminis- 
cence turned  toward  Basil  Norman.  I  had  seen 
him  somewhere,  but  whether  in  London  or  in  the 
country  my  poor  tired  brain  seemed  unable  to 
determine.  And  then,  with  no  regard  for  rele- 
vancy, I  was  with  my  battalion  once  more,  march- 
ing with  the  Australians  to  hold  a  strategical 
point  that  one  of  our  brigades  had  saved  from  the 
disaster  of  March.  Who  was  it  said  that  the 
Australians  lacked  discipline?  Look  at  them 
grinning  like  youngsters  at  a  game,  with  the  odds 

64 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

against  any  coming  out  alive!  Discipline?  Hell! 

We  rested  at  a  cross-roads  and  smoked ;  one  of 
our  Tommies  was  singing  the  refrain  of  a  song 
that  urged  the  country  to  call  up  all  his  relations, 
even  his  father  and  his  mother,  but  "for  Gawd's 
sake"  not  to  take  him.  The  sublime  incongruity 
of  it  was  so  thoroughly  British  that  we  laughed 
and  called  for  a  repetition.  A  few  minutes  later 
the  Australians  passed  us,  going  forward,  and 
there  was  a  reckless  air  of  bravado  about  them 
that  boded  ill  for  the  Hun. 

We  waited  an  hour,  two  hours — perhaps  more. 

By  Jove!  Coming  around  the  bend  in  the  road 
was  the  brigade  that  had  held  the  line.  Good 
work,  you  chaps!  Well  done!  Bravo!  That's 
it,  3^ou  fellows;  give  them  a  cheer!  Beneath  the 
mud  and  the  dust  and  the  beards,  they  were  livid 
with  fatigue;  the  skin  beneath  their  eyes  had 
dropped,  and  their  jaws  hung  impotently,  like 
those  of  idiots.  There  wasn't  a  sound  from  their 
ranks  as,  too  weary  to  lift  them,  they  dragged 
their  feet  through  the  dust  of  the  road.  They  had 
held  their  position  for  fifty-six  hours,  attacked 
incessantl}'  from  three  sides  by  overwhelming 

65 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

numbers.  Damned  good,  you  fellows;  damned 
good! 

Still  buffeted  by  imagination,  my  memory  of 
the  scene  seemed  to  fade;  yet  one  impression 
lingered  that  was  both  livid  and  blurred.  It  was 
when  that  brigade,  or  what  was  left  of  it,  had  al- 
most passed,  and  we  were  tightening  up  the 
straps  of  our  kits,  that  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his 
face,  or  that  of  a  man  who  could  have  passed  as 
his  twin.  The  soldier  beside  him  was  limping 
painfully  and  leaning  on  him  heavily  in  an  en- 
deavor to  keep  up,  and  beneath  the  gi'imy  pallor 
of  that  face  I  could  see  the  old  wistful,  whimsical 
smile.  ...  I  tried  to  cry  out,  but  something 
stuck  in  my  throat,  and  next  moment  we  were 
falling  in. 

It  was  Basil  ISTorman,  and  the  lame  soldier  be- 
side him  was  the  man  with  a  face  like  a  pumpkin. 
Either  that  or  my  brain  had  become  the  plaything 
of  fancy. 

Again  my  memory  became  a  blank,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  everything  seemed  obscured.  Some 
one  was  shouting!  It  was  taken  up  by  another, 
then  by  many — the  whole  air  was  filled  with 
noise.  .  .  .  I  heard  a  woman's  voice.    Good  God! 

66 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Had  the  Germans  broken  through  ?  .  .  .  "Steady, 
men — get  your  aim  first."  .  .  .  The  shouting 
grew  in  intensity,  and  I  pressed  my  brow  with 
my  hands  until  the  marks  stood  out  like  wounds. 
With  a  cry  as  of  an  animal  in  pain,  I  rose  to  my 
feet  and  shook  the  shadows  from  my  eyes.  There 
was  my  room — the  smoldering  fire — my  chair 
.  .  .  but  the  shouting — it  was  louder  than  before. 

Feeling  my  reason  tottering,  I  crossed  to  the 
window  and  threw  it  open.  People  were  running, 
and  crying  some  word  as  they  ran;  one  woman 
wept  openly,  and  no  one  heeded  her;  a  taxi 
passed  crowded  to  the  roof  with  hatless,  gesticu- 
lating enthusiasts.  Was  the  whole  world  mad? 
From  every  direction  came  the  noise  of  deep- 
throated  shouting,  swelling  into  a  vast  Te  Deiom 
of  sound.  A  soldier  with  one  foot  leaned  against 
a  lamp-post  and  rested  his  muscles  from  their 
labor  with  the  crutches. 

"Hello  I"  I  cried.  The  khaki  seemed  to  restore 
my  grip  on  things.    "I  say — hello!" 

He  turned  round  and  hobbled  over  to  my  win- 
dow.   "Wot's  the  trouble?"  he  said. 

"This  shouting,"  I  cried;  "these  people  running 
like  rabbits.    What  does  it  all  mean?" 

67 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Wot!  don't  you  know?"  He  smacked  his  lips 
in  appreciation  of  the  surprise  he  had  in  store  for 
me.    "Why,  Fritz  'as  took  the  count,  'e  'as.'* 

"Then, "  Confound  it;  what  made  my  lips 

quiver  so?  "Then — it's  peace?  .  .  .  You  mean 
.  .  .  it's  peace?" 

He  nodded  half-a-dozen  times.  "The  war,"  he 
said,  feeling  the  importance  of  his  declaration,  "is 
napoo.  Kaiser  Bill  'as  'opped  the  twig,  and  the 
hold  firm  of  'im  and  Gott  is  for  sale,  with  the 
goodwill  thrown  in,  I  dont  think." 

I  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  we  grasped 
hands. 

Futile.  .  .  .  Futile.  .  .  .  Futile. 

No — by  Heaven,  no !  Not  while  we  remember 
our  dead ;  not  while  the  spirit  of  comradeship  still 
lives  in  the  breasts  of  those  who  went  out  there; 
never,  if  the  Britain  of  the  future  is  worthy  of  her 
knights  of  the  greatest  crusade  of  all,  and  of  the 
mothers  who  gave  that  which  had  sprung  from 
their  very  heart-beats. 

"Out  of  sorrow  have  the  worlds  been  built,  and 
at  the  birth  of  a  child  or  a  star  there  is  pain/' 

Half -mad  with  joy,  I  rushed  into  the  street  and 
urged  my  hospitality  on  the  mutilated  soldier, 

68 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

who  came  into  my  den  and  took  a  seat  by  the  fire, 
while  I  fetched  a  decanter  and  cigars  that  we 
might  make  the  occasion  a  jovial  one.  As  I 
came  into  the  room  I  noticed  that  he  was  examin- 
ing me  curiously. 

"Hexcuse  me,"  he  said,  "but  if  I  may  make  so 
bold — wasn't  you  'is  pal?" 

"Good  heavens!"  I  cried,  a  light  bursting  upon 
me.  "You're  the  man  with  a  face  like  a — like 
a "  I  suppose  I  blushed. 

"Don't  'esitate,"  he  grinned.  "Many  a  time 
over  there  'e  told  me  you  called  me  'Pumpkin- 
Fice,'  and,  beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  I  likes  it  a 
sight  better  than  Test.'  " 

"Then — it  was  Norman  I  saw  in  March?" 

"Ay."  He  sipped  his  glass  meditatively.  "  'E 
lied  about  'is  'eart,  and  was  took  O.K.  late  in 
'fifteen.  'E  was  a  ranker  like  the  rest  of  us,  but 
'e  was  a  proper  gentleman,  'e  was — that  is,  not 
just  like  we  hunderstands  the  word  in  Hengland, 
but  a  reed  gentleman.  'E  never  preached  and  'e 
never  whined,  but  them  two  heyes  just  kept 
twinklin',  and  whenever  hany  of  us  was  a  bit 
windy,  'e  'd  sort  of  buck  us  hup  by  that  there 
smile  'e  'ad.     I  ain't  much  on  langwidge,  not 

69 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

'avin'  no  eddication  to  speak  of,  or  I'd  hexplain 
better;  but  when  little  Sawyers  got  'is  from  a 
sniper,  and  'e  knew  'is  ticket  was  punched  for  to 
go  West,  the  sergeant  says,  'Fetch  the  padre,' 
but  Sawyers  'e  says,  'No,  it's  Bubbles  I  want.' 
...  I  ain't  much  on  religion  neither,  and  I've 
done  a  'cap  o'  filthy  swearin',  which  I  guess  is 
all  down  agin  me  in  the  book ;  but  wherever  Bub- 
bles is  goin'  is  good  enough  for  me,  whether  it's 
brimstin  and  blazes  or  hangels  playin'  'arps." 

"Tell  me" — I  dreaded  the  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion— "where  is  he  now?" 

"  'E's  took  a  cottage  hover  in  the  Hisle  o' 
Wight,"  he  said,  clearing  his  throat  and  speaking 
slowly,  "and  'e's  married  to  the  sweetest  creetur 
I  ever  saw  houtside  a  book.  Blime!  after  I  gets 
hout  o'  'ospital,  me  not  'avin'  any  hold  woman 
of  my  own,  'e  finds  me  hout  and  sends  a  letter 
sayin'  to  go  there  for  my  convalessings,  which 
likewise  I  did.  That's  'is  haddress  on  the  top  of 
that  there  letter." 

I  took  the  paper  from  his  hand,  but  kept  my 
eyes  on  his  face ;  he  was  keeping  something  from 
me.  "Tell  me  the  truth  about  him,"  I  said,  and 
waited. 

70 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

He  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair.  '"E  got  a 
blighty  near  'is  'eart,"  he  said,  making  a  supreme 
eif ort,  "and  'e'll  never  get  hup  from  'is  chair  no 
more." 

XI 

The  packet  for  the  Isle  of  Wight  threaded 
its  way  through  the  traffic  of  incoming  vessels, 
and  ran  by  a  cruiser  that  had  just  come  from  the 
bloodless  Trafalgar  of  German  shame,  where  the 
second  navy  of  the  world  surrendered  without  a 
fight. 

A  man  next  to  me  grunted.  "It's  all  right  for 
us  to  crow,"  he  said;  "but  Germany  was  beaten, 
and  she  did  the  right  thing." 

I  looked  at  him — he  was  quite  sincere.  His 
hair  was  unduly  long,  and  he  carried  a  manu- 
script case — probably  one  of  the  statistical  writ- 
ers still  going  strong. 

"In  your  wildest  flights  of  imagination,"  I 
said,  "even  if  the  combined  fleets  of  the  world 
were  against  him,  could  you  picture  Beatty  lead- 
ing the  British  Navy  out  to  surrender?" 

"Supposing  he  were  ordered?" 

As  if  in  answer  to  his  question,  our  course  took 

71 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

US  by  the  hull  of  the  Victory,  straining  at  her 
moorings  in  the  November  wind. 

"In  that  case,"  I  said,  "Beatty  would  have  had 
two  blind  eyes." 

Which  was  the  sum  total  of  our  conversation 
until  we  landed  at  Ryde,  when  our  paths  di- 
verged, never,  I  hope,  to  meet  again.  Probably, 
over  the  week-end,  he  was  polishing  up  some 
powerful  articles  on  the  absurdity  of  Reconstruc- 
tion. 

By  the  time  the  train  had  reached  the  little 
station  of  St.  Louis,  just  beyond  Ventnor,  the 
wind  had  blown  away  any  clouds,  and  the  sun 
was  shining  radiantly.  As  I  emerged  from  my 
carriage  I  felt  a  throb  of  exhilaration  shoot 
through  my  veins,  but  depart  as  quickly  as  it  had 
come,  when  I  realized  how  near  was  the  tragedy 
which  I  had  soon  to  witness.  I  heard  my  name 
spoken,  and,  turning,  saw  a  ruddy-faced,  storm- 
blown  fellow  of  fifty  odd  years,  whose  whole  bear- 
ing smacked  of  nor'-westers  and  mizzen-tops. 
When  I  admitted  to  my  name,  he  seized  my  bag 
without  a  word,  and  started  down  the  road  with 
the  swaying  motion  peculiar  to  mariners. 

We  had  hardly  gone  any  distance,  when  he 

72 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

stopped  at  a  gate  which  proved  to  be  the  back 
entrance  to  a  garden,  and  following  him  through 
it,  I  was  led  along  a  path  which  was  strewn  with 
leaves  in  all  the  wealth  of  autumnal  coloring, 
while  through  the  trees  there  was  the  deep  blue  of 
the  sea,  flecked  with  crests  of  foam.  We  had 
gone  about  fifty  yards  when  we  came  upon  a  cot- 
tage, in  front  of  which,  on  a  promontory,  was  a 
neatly  trimmed  lawn,  guarded  by  six  trees  that 
stood  like  sentinels.  The  lower  branches  had 
been  cut  to  give  a  better  view,  and  their  appear- 
ance lent  a  quaintly  tropical  look  to  the  place,  as 
if  they  were  palms.  In  front  of  the  house,  fields 
sloped  gradually  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  which 
overlooked  the  sea  beneath. 

"My  dear  old  Pest!" 

Against  the  background  of  trees  I  had  failed 
to  notice  him  sitting  in  an  invalid's  chair.  In 
three  strides  I  was  by  his  side,  his  hands  in  mine 
.  .  .  but  no  words  came  to  my  faltering  lips. 
For  a  moment  the  gray  of  his  eyes  softened  to  a 
look  of  understanding;  then  the  old  smile,  just 
as  charming  as  ever,  irradiated  his  face. 

"This  is  an  event,"  he  said,  "to  be  entered  in 
thelog.— Sindbad!" 

73 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

The  ex-seaman  who  had  acted  as  my  guide 
pulled  at  his  forelock. 

"Ay,  ay,  cap'n!" 

"Take  this  gentleman's  things  to  the  guest- 
room upstairs." 

"The  cabin  to  starboard ?    Werry  good,  cap'n." 

Heavens !  such  a  voice !  There  were  fog,  gale, 
piracy,  rum,  and  combat  in  it. 

"Sindbad,"  said  Norman,  in  answer  to  my  look, 
"is  one  of  my  indiscretions — like  'Arcadia.'  He 
turned  up  here  one  day  with  such  a  tale  of  the 
sea  as  would  have  shamed  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son at  his  best.  So  far  as  I  can  discover,  he  has 
been  in  every  naval  fight  since  Aboukir  Bay. 
He's  a  bit  hazy  on  the  Jutland  scrap,  but  hints 
darkly  at  the  possibility  of  an  invasion  by  Spain. 
He  is  convinced  that  the  Armada  is  only  hiding 
and  waiting  its  time." 

In  spite  of  myself,  I  laughed. 

"As  he  refused  to  go,  I  decided  to  employ  him 
as  a  man-of-all-work,  and,  as  he  appeared  to  have 
forgotten  his  own  name,  I  gave  him  that  of 
'Sindbad,'  which  pleased  him  as  much  as  me.  As 
a  result  of  my  engaging  him,  the  lawn  you  stand 
on  is  the  quarter-deck  which  he  never  fails  to 

74 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

salute.  As  nearly  as  I  can  discover,  we  are  sail- 
ing a  perpetual  voyage — you  see  by  this  view 
that  the  illusion  is  possible — and  we're  living  in 
the  imminent  danger  and  hope  of  an  attack  by 
the  Spanish.  By  the  way,  old  man,  would  you 
rather  go  upstairs  and  clean  up?  Are  you  cold 
sitting  there?  Sometimes,  being  so  comfortable 
myself,  I  forget  all  about  my  guests." 

I  protested,  sincerely,  that  I  was  quite  con- 
tented where  I  was. 

"Good!"  he  smiled.  "Now  tell  me  all  about 
London.  ...  I  see  you  were  hit  twice.  From 
more  than  a  dozen  sources  I've  heard  how  splen- 
did you  were  in  France." 

His  voice  was  so  bright,  with  its  old,  happy 
mannerism  of  rapidity  of  words,  with  the  occa- 
sional slurring  rallentando,  and  his  gaiety  so  in- 
fectious, that,  under  his  influence,  I  felt  the 
clouds  about  my  brain  lifting — not  only  those 
caused  by  Trief  for  his  helpless  condition,  but 
those  born  of  my  own  black  moods  which  drove 
sleep  from  my  eyes  for  nights  at  a  time.  I  had 
come  determined  to  be  cheerful  and  to  bring  en- 
couragement to  the  invalid,  but  already  I  was 
drinking  in  the  elixir  of  his  spirit  and  feeling 

7r> 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

my  arteries  throb  with  a  kind  of  ecstasy.  His 
charm  was  more  potent  than  before. 

For  a  few  minutes  we  chatted  about  France 
and  the  old  Westminster  boys  who  had  won  re- 
nown. We  talked  of  many  things,  and  laughed 
to  find  that  we  were  still  boys. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  during  a  momentary 
lull  in  the  stream  of  reminiscence,  "I  must  apolo- 
gize for  my  wife.  She  is  doing  some  necessary 
shopping  in  Ventnor,  but  will  be  back  by  the  next 
train." 

"I  heard  you  were  married,"  I  said,  but  got  no 
further.  Delicacy  forbade  my  asking  him  how 
his  dream  of  love  had  become  a  reality.  He  must 
have  read  the  question  in  my  eyes,  however,  for 
he  offered  me  his  cigarettes,  which,  with  him,  was 
always  a  prelude  to  a  change  in  the  tone  of  con- 
versation. 

"I  did  not  write  to  her  after  I  went  to  France," 
he  said  quietly,  "because  .  .  .  well,  I've  spoken 
to  you  before  of  my  sense  of  intuition — and  I 
knew  that  mine  would  be  a  heavy  price  to 
pay.  It  was  not  fair  to  fasten  her  with  a  life 
none  too  robust  at  its  best,  because  of  a  love- 
fantasy  between  two  children.    When  I  was  hit, 

76 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

and  they  broke  the  news  to  me  that — that  this 
was  to  be  my  luck,  the  one  thing  that  comforted 
me  was  the  thought  that  she  was  free  and  would 
not  have  to  share  my  captivity.  By-the-by, 
Pest,  isn't  the  sea  fascinating?  It  is  never  the 
same  for  two  days  together." 

He  was  still  a  Puck,  lightening  his  moods 
whenever  they  threatened  to  hurt  the  listener 
with  their  intensity. 

"Pest,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "she  came  to  me. 
.  .  .  When  everything  was  dark,  and  I  was  grop- 
ing blindly  for  some  hand  that  would  start  me 
just  a — a  little  on  my  path,  she  came — out  of  the 
mists.  I  urged  her  to  leave  me.  I  argued  that 
she  was  not  fair — and  for  answer  she  kissed  me. 
.  .  .  Pest,  it  was  a  moment  of  such  exquisite  hap- 
piness, a  happiness  so  poignant,  that  I  wish  I 
could  have  died  then.  I  was  never  so  fit  for 
heaven."  , 

The  figure  of  Sindbad  appeared  from  the 
house,  tugged  at  its  forelock,  and  disappeared 
into  the  garden  to  trim  some  shrubs. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  come  here?"  I  asked. 

"I  had  always  looked  on  the  island,"  he  said, 
smiling,  "as  the  only  spot  in  England  where  a 

77 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

twentieth-century  Robinson  Crusoe  could  find  a 
sanctuary  from  the  world,  and,  by  the  courtesy 
of  the  gentleman  who  owned  the  place,  I  was  able 
to  purchase  it  at  a  ridiculously  low  price.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  was  offered  twice  the  amount 
quoted  to  me,  but  refused  because  I  was  a  dis- 
abled Tommy.  We  came  here  strangers,  but 
really  the  kindness  of  every  one  is  so  great  that 
the  ordeal  is  turning  into  a  privilege.  You  have 
no  idea.  Pest,  how  extraordinarily  sympathetic 
and  courteous  these  people  are." 

"I  suppose,  though,"  I  said  softly,  "that  it  is 
rather — lonely." 

"Lonely?"  he  laughed.  "Bless  your  heart,  old 
boy!  talk  about  a  French  savant  and  his  salon — 
this  place  is  a  positive  jSIecca  for  all  the  distin- 
guished pilgrims  on  the  island.  For  instance, 
there  is  the  editor  of  the  Tribune — a  man  who 
thinks  editorially  and  talks  colossally.  He  claims 
that  any  one  who  has  read  Boswell's  Life  of 
Johnson,  Cervantes'  Don  Quixote,  and  Car- 
lyle's  French  Revolution  is  educated.  He  never 
reads  anything  else,  but  keeps  on  reading  these 
three  in  an  endless  cycle.  We  have  perfectly 
stupendous  arguments  that  never  get  anywhere, 

78 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

but  utterly  exhaust  both  of  us.  Then  there's  the 
station-master.  How  many  passengers  boarded 
the  train  here  when  you  were  coming  off?" 

"Four,  I  think." 

**Ah,  yes;  this  is  Saturday — a  busy  day.  Some 
trains  we  don't  get  any,  and  others  just  one  or 
two;  but  in  anticipation  of  a  rush  at  some  future 
date,  he's  invented  a  scheme  of  getting  tickets 
out  of  a  drawer,  stamped  and  all  complete,  by 
merely  pressing  a  button.  I  assure  you  it's  going 
to  revolutionize  the  booking  systems  of  the  world 
— we've  been  working  on  it  for  weeks,  but  so  far 
all  we've  got  is  the  button.  The  plans  are  pro- 
digious, though.  And  the  Tommies !  Gor  blime. 
Pest!  there's  a  convalescent  home  just  down  the 
road,  and  it's  a  queer  day  that  at  least  two  of  the 
beggars  don't  come  up  for  a  'jaw'  about  old 
times.  You  talk  about  your  officers'  messes  and 
brass  hats ;  why,  it's  real  life  in  the  ranks.  I  tell 
you.  Pest,  I  would  rather  be  the  man  that  coined 
the  word  'Cheerio'  than  the  greatest  general  the 
world  has  seen." 

A  merchant-ship,  still  wearing  its  strange  mot- 
ley of  camouflage,  sailed  past  only  a  couple  of 
miles  from  shore. 

79 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"L(X)k!"  whispered  Norman,  and  pointed  down 
the  garden. 

Sindbad  was  crouched  behind  some  bushes, 
surveying  the  vessel  through  a  dilapidated  tele- 
scope. After  a  careful  scrutiny,  he  resumed  his 
labors,  shaking  his  head  and  muttering  darkly  to 
himself. 

Norman  chuckled  hilariously.  "He's  on  the 
look-out  for  Spaniards,"  he  said. 

"What  a  villainous  telescope!" 

"Isn't  it?  He  always  has  it  by  him,  though. 
I'll  swear  you  can't  see  half-a-mile  with  the 
blessed  thing." 

A  huge  black  hound  appeared  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  conservatory,  and,  after  the  canine 
manner,  expressed  his  wriggliest  delight  at  the 
sight  of  Norman,  ending  by  sitting  solemnly  be- 
side the  chair  and  laying  one  paw  on  the  invalid's 
knee. 

"Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Jones,"  said  Norman. 

The  dog  thumped  the  ground  four  times  with 
his  tail,  and  emitted  a  yawn  like  the  sound  of  a 
train  emerging  from  a  tunnel. 

"Mr.  Jones,"  said  I,  "changes  from  cordiality 
to  ennui  with  rather  startling  rapidity." 

80 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

The  hound  acknowledged  his  name  by  a  soli- 
tary thump,  and  then  groaned  with  the  air  of  a 
Stiggins  contemplating  the  wickedness  of  a 
Weller. 

"What  breed  is  he?"  I  asked. 

"Dog — just  dog.  He  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  the 
battle-ground  of  his  ancestors.  Every  breed  but 
that  of  bull  can  be  traced  in  him,  and  each  has  its 
moment  of  ascendancy.  Mr.  Jones  possesses  a 
most  remarkable  hereditary  system." 

The  subject  of  our  conversation  became  sud- 
denly tense.  A  bird  had  hopped  on  to  the  quar- 
ter-deck, and  was  pecking  at  the  ground  in  a 
manner  that  would  infuriate  any  self-respecting 
dog. 

Gathering  up  his  loins,  ]Mr.  Jones  stalked  the 
intruder  to  within  four  yards,  and  then  fell  in  a 
heap  on  the  spot — where  the  bird  had  been.  After 
surveying  the  landscape  with  a  puzzled  air,  as  if 
to  indicate  to  us  that  foul  work  was  afloat,  he 
walked  to  the  end  of  the  lawn  and  gazed  thought- 
fully at  the  sea.  Having  thoroughly  demon- 
strated his  indifference  as  to  whether  he  ever 
caught  a  bird  or  not,  he  yawned  terrifically,  and 
left  the  scene  for  the  comfort  of  the  kitchen. 

81 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 


XII 

And  so,  partly  with  banter,  but  with  many 
moments  that  were  tense  with  feeling,  we  talked 
while  the  afternoon  wore  on.  Norman  was  in  the 
midst  of  some  anecdote  of  either  Sindbad  or  Mr. 
Jones,  when  he  paused,  and  a  look  of  delighted 
anticipation  lit  his  countenance. 

"That's  the  whistle,"  he  said.  "The  train's 
right  on  time  to-day."  He  sighed  happily,  as  a 
lover  about  to  meet  his  sweetheart  after  a  long 
absence. 

"Sindbad,"  he  cried,  "pipe  all  hands  to  tea. 
Tell  Mrs.  M'Gillicuddy  we'll  have  it  in  the  music- 
room." 

Telescope  under  his  arm,  the  worthy  buccaneer 
— for  I  am  convinced  he  sailed  under  Captain 
Kidd — shuffled  into  the  house,  and  the  noise  of 
the  train  could  be  distinctly  heard  as  it  emptied 
its  crowd  of  one  or  two  at  the  little  station. 

"I  shall  go  and  open  the  gate,"  I  said,  but  he 
stopped  me. 

"He  is  with  her.  Pest." 

"Who?" 

82 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Wait.  ...  I  have  kept  a  surj)rise  for  you." 

A  minute  later  I  saw  his  wife  at  the  end  of  the 
path  as  she  waved  to  him.  She  came  through  the 
leafy  garden  with  a  grace  of  movement  that 
made  the  scene  a  delicate,  colorful  picture,  and 
even  before  she  had  reached  us  I  could  see  that 
her  beauty  was  as  exquisite,  as  perfect,  as  an 
orchid's.    All  sacrificed  to  an  invalid.  .  .  . 

With  the  tenderest  of  smiles  in  her  eyes,  which 
were  blue  as  the  sky,  she  advanced  towards  us 
and  kissed  him;  and  I,  who  detest  things  senti- 
mental as  I  would  the  plague,  thought  it  was  the 
loveliest  tribute  I  had  ever  seen.  Before  he  could 
speak,  she  turned  and  gave  me  both  her  hands. 

"I  won't  apologize,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was 
as  sweet  as  a  brook's,  "because  I  know  you  both 
enjoyed  your  talk  of  old  times  the  better  for  my 
absence." 

"It  was  a  wonderful  afternoon,"  I  said,  "but  it 
would  have  been  doubly  so  with  you  here." 

And  then  I,  the  Pest,  the  cynic,  the  modernist, 
stooped  and  kissed  her  hand.  It  seemed  the 
natural  thing  to  do,  and  she  accepted  it  with  the 
understanding  heart  that  Nature  had  given  her. 

"But,  Lilias,  where  is  the  lad?" 

83 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

*'0h,"  she  laughed  gaily,  "the  station-master 
kept  him  a  moment  to  show  him  an  entirely  new 
button  he  had  thought  of.    But  here  he  is  now." 

Coming  up  the  path,  carrying  a  couple  of  par- 
cels, was  a  boy  of,  perhaps,  ten  years  of  age.  His 
hair  was  golden  and  curly,  and  his  eyes  had  a 
dreamy  look  that  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
strength  of  his  chin.  He  had  the  poise  and  the 
appearance  of  a  thoughtful,  well-bred  youth;  but 
there  was  something,  I  could  not  say  what,  that 
told  me  he  was  not  English. 

He  touched  his  cap  to  me  as  he  came  on  the 
lawn  and  smiled  cordially  to  Basil. 

*'Do  you  remember  the  gentleman?"  asked 
Norman. 

The  boy  shook  his  head  and  unconsciously 
moved  nearer  to  the  woman,  who  placed  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder. 

"You  shouldn't  forget  each  other,"  laughed 
Norman,  "for  once  he  played  the  drums  under 
your  baton." 

A  few  minutes  later  we  went  in  for  tea,  the  boy 
and  Mrs.  Norman  going  first.  I  waited  while 
Sindbad  prepared  to  move  the  invalid,  and  then 
turned  to  him  for  an  explanation. 

84 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Klotz  was  killed,"  said  Norman  swiftly,  "and 
his  wife  died  a  month  later,  after  she  heard  of 
his  death.  We  have  adopted  Siegfried  as  our 
ward." 

XIII 

That  night  a  storm  came  up  from  the  sea, 
and  the  house  rattled  and  shook  in  the  clutch  of  a 
November  gaie.  The  trees  that  looked  like  palms 
swayed  and  bent  before  the  wind,  and  the  many- 
colored  leaves  in  the  garden  fled  like  refugees  be- 
fore an  attack,  and  covered  the  ground  with  their 
quivering  bodies. 

We  were  gathered  in  the  music-room,  the  cosy 
warmth  from  a  fire  of  logs  making  pleasant  con- 
trast to  the  snarling  wind  outside.  The  evening 
had  been  a  memorable  one.  The  woman  whose 
beauty  was  so  delicate  had  charmed  us  with  her 
voice,  her  playing;  charmed  us  without  effort  or 
knowing  how. 

From  a  lounge,  Norman's  vivacity,  which  al- 
ways had  in  it  the  quality  of  sympathy,  illumin- 
ated everything  that  happened.  When  she  sang 
a  little  extract  of  the  eighteenth  century,  "Ber- 
gere  JLegere"  it  was  he  who  knew  that  it  had  been 

85 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

a  favorite  of  Marie  Antoinette's.  When  she 
played  the  love  theme  which  Puccini  gives  the 
strings  in  the  first  act  of  Madame  Butterfly,  it 
was  Norman  who,  by  a  dozen  deftly  chosen 
words,  created  the  atmosphere  of  Japan  and 
brought  before  us  the  cruel  tenderness  of  Pink- 
erton's  love  for  Cho  Cho  San.  After  Siegfried 
had  played  MacDowell's  conception  of  "]Mid- 
ocean,"  Norman  recalled  in  a  moment  the  genius 
of  America's  greatest  composer,  the  genius  that 
had  finally  crossed  the  thin  barrier  to  insanity. 
From  that  we  talked  of  the  sea,  while  the  wind 
howled  outside,  and  I  spoke  of  the  many  moods 
of  blue  that  colored  it  in  a  single  day,  and,  with- 
out giving  the  effect  of  quotation  or  of  mono- 
logue, he  brought  his  artistry  into  play  with  three 
lines  of  Keats's  sonnet  "Blue." 

Whenever  any  of  us  spoke,  his  sensitive  rhyth- 
mic intellectuality  seemed  to  hover  about  us,  ac- 
knowledging thought  where  it  struggled  to  the 
surface,  adding  some  subtle  touch  of  color  when 
our  efforts  seemed  too  drab.  Under  its  influence 
we  talked  our  best,  we  thought  our  best,  we  were 
our  best. 

86 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

At  nine  o'clock  Siegfried  rose  to  go  to  bed,  and 
advanced  to  shake  hands  with  me. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "and  do  you  still  intend  to  be  a 
conductor?" 

He  smiled  a  little  self-consciously. 

"There  is  much  to  learn,"  he  said,  "and — I  do 
not  want  to  leave  my  home." 

Norman  lit  a  cigarette — his  old  mannerism 
when  emotions  were  taut. 

"Parents,"  he  said,  "and  quasi-parents  like  us, 
march  straight  towards  loneliness.  Our  greatest 
concern  is  to  have  our  children  ready  to  leave  us 
as  soon  as  they  hear  the  call  of  the  world,  know- 
ing that  such  a  moment  will  be  the  proudest  and 
the  saddest  of  our  lives." 

"Good-night,"  said  Siegfried  to  me.  "Good- 
night, Uncle  Bubbles."  He  turned  wistfully  to 
Mrs.  Norman,  who  smiled  and  linked  her  arm  in 
his. 

"Won't  you  come  along?"  she  said  to  me. 
"Siegfried  is  very  proud  of  his  room,  and  would 
like  you  to  see  it."  It  was  her  way  of  hiding  her 
knowledge  that  the  little  chap  was  frightened  by 
the  storm.  So  we  saw  him  safely  in  bed,  and  ad- 
mired his  books,  and  wished  him  pleasant  dreams. 

87 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

We  had  just  left  his  room  and  were  about  to 
descend  the  stairs,  when  we  paused  as  the  sound 
of  rain  beating  against  the  house  came  to  our 
ears.  We  hurried  about  for  a  few  moments  see- 
ing that  all  windows  were  closed,  and  were  going 
to  rejoin  Norman,  when  I  stopped  her. 

"Mrs.  Norman,"  I  said  haltingly,  "it  is  never 
easy  for  an  Englishman  to  express  the  emotion 
he  feels,  but  may  I  tell  you  how  touched  I  am  by 
your  devotion  to  your  husband?  Without  you, 
his  life  would  be — ^unbearable." 

She  did  not  smile  or  protest,  but  her  eyes 
looked  straight  into  mine. 

"To  live  day  by  day,"  she  said  slowly,  her 
fingers  playing  with  a  necklace  that  hung  about 
her  full  white  throat,  "near  a  soul  like  Basil's,  to 
commune  with  a  brain  like  his  .  .  .  to  feel  the 
inspiration  of  his  nature  that  is  so  in  tune  with 
the  beauty  of  the  world,,  is  a  happiness  few 
women  can  experience.  If  it  were  not  too  cruel, 
I  could  feel  thankful  for  his  wound  that  has  given 
him  so  completely  to  me." 

I  stood  by  her  on  the  creaking  stairs  as  the 
rain  swept  in  torrents  against  the  house,  and  her 

88 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

murmuring  tones  mingled  with  the  sounds  of  the 
storm. 

"Perhaps  you  cannot  understand,"  she  said 
gently,  "but  loving  Basil  as  I  do,  and  having  him 
dependent  on  me,  is  a  selfish  happiness  that  only 
a  woman  could  really  know." 

And  out  of  the  night  a  truth  came  to  me  that, 
though  it  never,  never  could  be  mine,  the  most 
precious  thing  in  this  world  is  a  woman's  heart. 

XIV 

It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  Basil  Norman  and 
I  were  alone.  The  storm  had  subsided,  and, 
through  the  sound  of  the  rain,  we  could  hear  the 
waves  breaking  against  the  shore. 

"I  do  not  want  Siegfried  to  go  to  school  yet," 
he  was  saying;  "he  is  so  full  of  promise  and  latent 
genius  that  I  dread  the  risk  of  having  it  all 
standardized  into  what  we  call  a  public-school 
man.  I  am  coaching  him  in  languages  and  the 
three  R's,  but  more  than  anything  else  I  want 
him  to  form  his  own  conception  of  the  scheme  of 
the  universe,  so  that  when  he  takes  his  position 
among  the  world's  musicians — as  I  am  confident 

89 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

he  will — ^he'll  have  the  echo  of  what  he  interprets 
in  his  own  breast.  INIusic  is  so  vast,  j^et  musicians, 
as  a  class,  are  people  of  little  depth." 

"Has  the  lad  a  chance  in  England  with  his 
German  name?" 

"Yes.  England  must  realize  that  genius  has 
no  nationality." 

"What  was  Siegfried  like  when  you  took  him 
first?" 

"He  was  arrogant,  sullen,  and  in  his  child's 
brain  was  the  knowledge  that  his  father  had 
fought  against  us.  To  make  him  forget  his  un- 
happy past,  and  partly  to  satisfy  a  caprice  of  my 
own,  I — well,  you  would  say  I  blew  bubbles. 
We  invented  a  little  city  of  make-believe.  From 
the  hill  at  the  back  of  the  house  you  can  look 
down  on  all  these  houses,  and  at  dusk,  when  the 
mist  rises  from  the  sea  and  the  windows  begin  to 
glow  with  light,  it  is  quaint  enough  for  a  study  by 
Rackham.  In  our  little  City  of  Bubbles  there 
dwelt  such  celebrities  as  Aladdin,  Jack  the  Giant 
Killer,  Midshipman  Easy,  Peter  Pan,  poor 
Wilde's  Happy  Prince,  and  Heaven  knows  how 
many  more.  They  were  very  real  to  Siegfried 
and  me,  and  Lilias  used  to  have  many  a  laugh 

90 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

over  the  troubles  of  our  little  family.  But  I  had 
not  counted  on  Sindbad ;  he  was  filling  Siegfried 
with  stories  of  buried  treasure  and  men  forced  to 
walk  the  plank  (all  of  them  absolutely  authenti- 
cated by  the  narrator),  and  the  lurking  Prussian 
began  to  appear.  He  stole  down  to  Ventnor 
and  bought  books  on  the  war  ...  he  began  to 
glory  in  the  stand  Germany  was  making.  So  I 
was  not  surprised  when,  one  day,  he  suggested 
that  we  should  play  soldiers. 

"Pest,  you  should  have  been  there.  Siegfried 
was  Napoleon,  and  I  was  Hindendorff,  his  chief 
of  Staff.  Sindbad  was  given  command  of  a  naval 
brigade,  and  was  also  in  charge  of  a  large  fleet 
lying  in  hiding  to  cope  with  the  Spaniard,  should 
he  emerge.  In  addition  to  these  modest  duties,  he 
Iiad  to  wheel  my  chair.  Lilias  came  along  as  a 
composite  representative  of  all  the  women's  serv- 
ices. Napoleon's  plans  were  that  we  should  at- 
tack the  City  of  Bubbles,  which  was  being  de- 
fended by  a  heavy  force  on  the  fringe  of  the 
hill.  I  omitted  to  mention  our  flying  cavalry  in 
the  person  of  Mr.  Jones;  but  owing  to  a  misun- 
derstanding of  our  objective  he  waged  separate 
war  on  birds  all  afternoon,  inflicting  no  casual- 

91 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

ties,  but  covering  an  immense  area  of  ground. 
We  began  the  attack  about  half-a-mile  back ;  but 
when  Napoleon  ordered  Sindbad's  naval  brigade 
into  action,  we  were  unable  to  find  him,  until  Mr. 
Jones  discovered  him  behind  a  rock,  scrutinizing 
a  passing  merchantman  through  the  inevitable 
telescope.  After  some  persuasion,  we  induced 
Sindbad  to  attack,  but  half-way  to  his  objective 
he  remembered  that  he  had  left  his  pipe  in  the 
kitchen,  to  which  he  repaired,  leaving  his  troops 
in  the  air,  as  we  used  to  say  in  France,  and  tak- 
ing away  the  mobility  which,  as  Chief  of  Staff,  I 
needed  urgently.  There  is  no  question  that 
Sindbad  possesses  imagination,  but  it  is  an  un- 
reliable one. 

"To  make  the  story  short,  we  won  by  a  brilli- 
ant ruse  of  Napoleon's,  who  got  word  to  the 
enemy  that  the  tuck-shops  in  Ventnor  were  being 
evacuated,  which  was  as  effective  as  his  famous 
"Sauve  qui  pent"  at  Waterloo,  for  they  fled  igno- 
miniously,  and  we  captured  the  city,  after  in- 
flicting heavy  casualties." 

I  looked  at  him  and  waited.  Behind  the  non- 
sense I  could  see  some  serious  thought  was  lurk- 
ing, but  what  I  could  not  conjecture. 

92 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"The  next  day,"  he  resumed,  "Siegfried  was 
tired,  and  asked  me  to  tell  how  Peter  Pan  frus- 
trated the  pirates.  'Peter  is  dead,'  said  I.  Sieg- 
fried suppressed  a  sob,  and  asked  when  he  died. 
'He  was  killed  in  our  attack,'  I  said.  After  a 
long  pause,  he  mentioned  the  probability  of  Mr. 
Midshipman  Easy  being  at  home.  'He  is  dead,' 
said  I.  Again  his  question,  and  again  my  an- 
swer: 'He  was  killed  in  our  attack.'  He  went 
out;  but  on  going  to  bed  that  night  he  asked  if 
Cinderella  was  really  very  pretty.  'Not  now,'  I 
said,  'for  she  is  lying  dead,'  Does  it  seem  ludi- 
crous. Pest?  That  night  he  cried  himself  to  sleep, 
and  it  is  not  easy  to  listen  to  a  youngster's  sobs 
when  you  know  that  a  word  from  you  will  do 
away  with  them.  For  two  long  dreary  weeks  our 
City  of  Bubbles  was  a  City  of  the  Dead.  .  .  . 
Then  I  suggested  that  we  play  soldiers  again 
and  make  another  attack.  After  all,  Pest,  it 
isn't  every  Tommy  gets  a  chance  of  being  Chief 
of  Staff.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  his  face. 
It  was  as  though  1  had  struck  him  with  a  whip, 
and  he  left  me  without  a  word.  That  afternoon 
the  Wizard  of  Oz  visited  our  city  and  brought 
them  all  back  to  life.    That  was  some  months  ago, 

93 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

and  our  little  dream-world  is  only  a  serio-humor- 
ous  memory  for  Siegfried  and  me  now.  But  dur- 
ing that  night  he  cried  himself  to  sleep  I  think 
the  Prussian  in  him  died." 

For  several  minutes  we  listened  to  the  rain. 

"The  greatest  of  the  Arts,"  said  Norman,  very 
slowly,  "is  life.  I  don't  think  our  writers,  our 
painters,  our  men  who  dream  in  bronze  realize 
that.  If  they  did,  it  would  not  be  said  that  the 
English  are  the  least  artistic  people  in  the  world; 
for  you  and  I  know  that  is  not  true.  Scott  going 
to  his  death  in  the  Antarctic  snow  was  a  great 
artist.  The  sailor  standing  to  one  side  when  the 
last  boat  is  filled,  and  those  six  Tommies  at 
Grieswald  in  Germany,  holding  their  ground 
against  a  row  of  bayonets  and  taking  a  sentence 
of  two  years'  imprisonment  rather  than  aid  the 
Hun  in  making  munitions — are  they  not  artists? 
Where  we  fail  as  a  race  is  in  our  authors,  com* 
posers,  painters,  who  divorce  themselves  from  the 
real  spirit  of  England  and  wonder  that  the 
products  of  their  brains  quicken  no  pulse  and  stir 
no  imagination.  Our  educationists,  our  leaders 
in  every  movement  allied  with  culture,  have  too 
often  striven  to  choke  the  imaginativeness  and 

94 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

blind  the  eyes  of  our  youth  to  the  beauty  of  life, 
which  is  one  of  its  greatest  truths.  One  has  but 
to  read  the  despairing  lines  written  by  bereaved 
mothers  for  their  sons  who  have  fallen,  to  feel  the 
sorrow  of  England  crying  for  expression ;  instead 
of  which,  our  triumph,  our  courage,  our  artistry 
are  mute  and  inarticulate." 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  wind  was  moan- 
ing over  the  sea  as  if  it  had  been  balked  of  its 
prey. 

"Mark  my  words,  Pest,"  he  said  dreamily,  "as 
a  nation  we  shall  have  no  self-expression  until 
our  artists  take  for  their  model  the  greatest  of  all 
Arts— Life." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  smouldering  coals, 
and  over  his  face  there  was  a  mystic  veil — a  thing 
not  of  this  world  but  born  of  the  undying  spirit. 
It  was  like  a  mist  that  settles  on  a  river  in  the 
hour  between  sunset  and  night. 

"Basil,"  I  cried;  and  the  sound  of  my  own 
voice  startled  me.  I  do  not  know  what  words 
were  surging  to  my  lips,  for  he  turned  to  me  and 
the  smile  of  compassion  in  his  eyes  held  me  silent. 

Something  choked  in  my  throat.  ...  I  felt 
that  I  wanted  to  struggle  to  my  feet  and  stand 

95 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

at  the  salute.    For  the  face  that  looked  into  mine 
was  that  of  a  conqueror. 

A  burning  ember  fell  from  the  grate  and  lay 
on  the  tiled  surface  of  the  hearth. 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 


THREE  hundred  miles  north  of  Toronto,  the 
Cobalt  mining  country  surrenders  its  daily 
toll  of  silver  to  the  world.  In  that  region  there 
is  mostly  rock.  Where  woods  exist,  the  trees  are 
gaunt  and  defiant,  as  though  resentful  of  the  ap- 
proach of  man;  in  winter  they  stand  like  white- 
shrouded  ghosts,  and  the  wind  howls  dismally 
through  them  until  in  the  little  settlements  across 
Lake  Timiskaming  men  draw  closer  to  the  fire, 
and  women  croon  comfort  to  frightened  children, 
yet  half-believe,  themselves,  the  Indian  legend 
that  another  soul  is  on  its  way  to  the  Great  Un- 
known. 

Five  miles  north  of  Cobalt  the  town  of  Hailey- 
bury  straggles  down  a  hill  to  the  lake,  on  the 
other  side  of  which  can  be  seen  the  blue  shores 
of  Pontiac,  Quebec,  where  lies  the  sleepy  little 

97 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

hamlet  known  as  Ville  Marie,  possessed  of  its 
church,  its  wayside  public-house,  "Les  Voya- 
geurs,"  and  a  few  vagabond  frame  buildings. 
The  ring  of  the  blacksmith's  anvil  can  be  heard 
throughout  the  day,  for  there  is  little  else  to 
drown  the  noise.  But  when  the  lumber- jacks 
come  in  from  the  woods,  or  the  river-runners 
from  their  convoys  of  logs,  there  is  always  the 
sound  of  a  noisy  chorus  from  "Les  Voyageurs," 
led  (in  the  times  we  write  of)  by  Pierre  Gener- 
aud,  who  knows  that  singing  a  constant  fortis- 
simo stimulates  thirst  in  participants  and  audi- 
tors alike.  On  Sunday  there  is  the  sound  of  the 
organ,  and  the  villagers  walk  about  in  ill-fitting 
garments  of  respectability :  a  simple  God-fearing 
community,  knowing  no  world  but  their  own, 
and  finding  their  joy  of  life  in  mere  existence. 

It  was  gathering  dusk,  one  summer  evening  in 
the  year  1914,  when  the  figure  of  a  young  officer 
wended  its  way  towards  "Les  Voyageurs." 

He  had  crossed  from  Haileybury  on  the  after- 
noon boat,  causing  not  a  little  comment  by  the 
uniform  he  wore.  All  in  the  mining  country  knew 
him  as  "Dug"  Campbell,  manager  of  the  Curran 
Like  Mine — they  were  hardly  prepared  for  the 

98 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

sudden  transition  from  his  usual  costume  of  rid- 
ing-breeches, brown  shirt,  and  lumberman's 
boots,  to  the  traj^pings  of  a  British  officer.  He 
was  a  young  man  of  big  stature,  with  broad, 
restless  shoulders  that  seemed  to  chafe  under 
the  bondage  of  a  tunic,  and  he  had  a  long,  loose- 
limbed  stride  oddly  at  variance  with  the  usual 
conception  of  military  bearing.  His  eyes  were 
light  blue,  his  hair  an  unruly  brown  that  flirted 
with  red — and  his  name  was  Campbell.  Such 
men  do  not  wait  for  the  second  call  when  there 
is  war. 

Wherever  civilization  is  forcing  her  right  of 
way,  wherever  she  is  fighting  for  her  existence, 
the  descendants  of  Scotland  will  be  found.  When 
a  new  railroad  struggles  over  unnamed  rivers 
and  through  untrodden  forests,  somewhere 
ahead  there  is  always  a  son  or  a  grandson  of  old 
Scotia,  whose  eyes  are  a  humorous  blue  and 
whose  hair  has  more  than  a  tinge  of  red.  There 
is  no  part  of  the  world  to  which  the  Scot  is  a 
stranger,  but  he  rises  to  his  best  in  a  new  country 
where  waterfalls  must  be  harnessed  to  give 
power;  where  great  rocks  must  be  blasted  from 
age-old  foundations;  where  rebellious  nature  in 

99 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

her  primeval  state  must  be  taught  that  the  world 
was  made  for  man. 

On  that  August  evening  in  that  most  fateful 
of  years,  the  figure  of  Captain  Douglas  Camp- 
bell, tall  and  somewhat  rugged,  like  one  of  the 
northern  trees,  might  have  served  as  a  sculptor's 
model  for  the  spirit  of  Scotland  confirming  and 
strengthening  the  purpose  of  young  Canada. 

Rich  in  tradition  as  she  is,  what  glory  of  her 
past  can  Scotland  have  that  is  greater  than 
this — that,  strong  in  the  manhood  which  seems 
to  spring  from  the  soil  of  her  country,  she  sent 
her  sons  to  every  corner  of  the  world;  and  when 
the  shadow  of  war  fell  upon  her — they  came  back! 
Sons,  grandsons,  those  to  whom  their  Scottish 
blood  Avas  little  more  than  a  family  legend,  they 
came  hack. 

Scotland  needs  no  other  monument  than  those 
three  words. 

II 

Nearing  "Les  Voyageurs"  the  young  officer 
paused  at  a  sudden  burst  of  sound  that  came 
from  the  inn.  In  place  of  the  usual  chorus,  one 
voice,  a  slovenly  but  powerful  one,  was  bellow- 

100 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

ing  forth  a  ribald  song,  remarkable  only  for  its 
noisy  coarseness.  Reaching  the  hostelry,  Camp- 
bell hammered  at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by 
mine  host  himself. 

"Ah!"  he  gesticulated  eloquently,  "Monsieur 
Cam-pell?"  (Pierre  Generaud,  like  all  French- 
Canadians,  invariably  reversed  his  accents  on 
Enghsh  words.)      "For  why  you  come,  eh?" 

"My  dear  Generaud,  must  I  give  reason  for 
visiting  the  famous  'Les  Voyageurs'?" 

"Ah!  By  gosh,  no!"  He  beamed  welcome  in 
every  pore — then  struck  an  attitude  of  desj^air. 
"You  come,  is  it  not,  as  an  officier,  perhaps  no 
—yes?" 

"Correct.  I  want  to  speak  just  for  a  minute 
to  the  men  inside." 

"Oh,  7nais  non!"  The  good  host's  gesture  was 
a  masterpiece,  even  among  a  race  of  gesticulators. 
"Not  to-night,  monsieur." 

"And  why  not?" 

"By  Gar!  Who  you  theenk  is  inside  now? 
Listen — she  sing!" 

Campbell  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the 
universal  French-Canadian  use  of  the  feminine 
pronoun  to   express   any  surprise   when   "she" 

101 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

proved  to  be  the  possessor  of  the  aforesaid  rau- 
cous, bass  voice,  which  had  broken  into  some 
song  anent  the  passion  of  a  sailor  for  a  Portu- 
guese young  lady  of  great  charm  but  doubtful 
modesty. 

"Who  is  our  friend?"  asked  the  officer. 

"What — you  know  not?  She  is  the  terrible 
Des  Rosiers!" 

"Well,  I  don't  like  Mr.  Des  Rosiers's  voice." 

"You  nevair  hear  her  name,  monsieur?  Some- 
time she  is  called  '  Jacque  Noir.'  Mon  Dieu! — she 
sleep  with  le  diableJ" 

The  landlord's  eyes  grew  wide  with  horror;  his 
shoulders  contracted  until  they  touched  his  ears. 

"Look  here,  my  friend,"  said  Campbell,  with  a 
tinge  of  impatience,  "Jacque  Noir  or  {Tacque 
Rouge  or  Jacque  Blanc  is  not  going  to  keep  me 
out  here." 

"But,  monsieur,  once  she  keel  a  man." 

"My  dear  fellow " 

"One  winter,  a  man  has  insult  Des  Rosiers,  and 
— voila!  Jacque  Noir  hum  her  house — keel  her 
family — murdair  her" 

With  a  laugh,  the  newly  created  officer  thrust 
the  little  man  aside  and  entered  the  sacred  pre- 

102 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

cincts  of  "Les  Voyageurs."  A  big,  dirty,  bearded 
fellow  of  about  thirty  years  of  age  was  leaning 
against  the  counter,  waving  a  mug  and  bellowing 
a  song.  He  looked  formidable  enough,  but 
hardly  justified  the  diabolical  qualities  attributed 
to  him  by  Pierre  Generaud.  In  spite  of  his 
unshaven  face  with  its  bloodshot,  inebriated  eyes, 
there  was  something  not  unpleasing  about  the 
fellow,  and  when  his  lips  parted  they  disclosed 
teeth  that  were  gleaming  white. 

A  group  of  villagers  sat  in  open-mouthed 
admiration  beneath  the  singer,  for  Des  Rosiers's 
reputation  had  gathered  velocity  like  a  snowball 
rolling  down  the  side  of  a  hill,  gaining  in  size 
every  time  it  came  into  contact  with  the  drifts  of 
rumor,  until  it  had  become  almost  a  legend  of 
wickedness.  His  audience  felt  a  timid  pride  in 
the  event.  It  was  as  if  his  Satanic  INIajesty  him- 
self had  condescended  to  appear  from  below  and 
sing  comic  songs  for  their  benefit. 

On  the  entrance  of  the  officer,  the  song  ceased, 
and  all  eyes  were  turned  to  the  new-comer. 

"Ilola,"  said  Des  Hosiers,  with  extraordinary 
resonance.    "You  drink  by  me,  eh  hien?" 

"No,  thanks.  I  must  only  stay  a  minute." 
103 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"You  no  drink?"  roared  the  lumber- jack,  whose 
hospitality  was  not  unlike  the  forcefulness  of  the 
muscular  Christian  in  "Androcles  and  the  Lion." 
*'You  drink,  or,  by  Gar,  I  brak  your  neck." 

A  hum  of  admiration  rose  from  the  villagers. 
They  bore  no  possible  malice  towards  the  officer, 
but  it  was  gratifying  to  find  Jacque  Noir  living 
up  to  his  reputation. 

''Messieurs/'  said  Campbell,  ignoring  the  gen- 
tleman in  question,  "there  is  a  war.  La  belle 
France  fights  for  her  life,  and  Canada  must  help. 
She  needs  you — and  you — and  you." 

With  their  meager  knowledge  of  English,  he 
was  forced  to  a  simplicity  of  language  that 
depended  almost  entirely  on  the  personal  appeal 
for  effect.  "Come  with  me  to  the  war.  We  pay 
you  one  dollar  ten  a  day,  and  your  wife  and 
g arsons  get  money  too." 

Mr.  Des  Hosiers  laughed,  scornfully  and  sono- 
rously. "I  laugh,"  he  said.  "You  theenk  we  go 
to  war,  and  you  English,  by  Gar,  no  leave  Can- 
ada, but  steal  all  we  leave  behind.  The  French- 
Canadian — he  go;  the  English-Canadian,  non." 
He  roared  a  vile  oath,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Camp- 

104 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

bell's  shoulder.  "I  brak  your  neck,"  he  said  com- 
fortingly. 

In  a  moment  Campbell's  tunic  was  off  and  he 
was  facing  Jacque  Noir.  "You  are  a  liar,  Des 
Hosiers,"  he  said.  "You  are  the  greatest  liar  and 
the  worst  singer  in  the  province  of  Quebec." 

The  Frenchman  tore  the  red  kerchief  from  his 
neck  and  hurled  the  mug  to  the  floor,  where  it 
broke  into  a  hundred  pieces.  "By  gosh,  me!"  he 
bellowed  in  a  voice  that  would  have  terrified  a 
bull.     ''Iked  your 

He  advanced  in  windmill  fashion,  but  his  op- 
ponent, who  had  been  one  of  the  best  boxers  of 
his  year  at  Toronto  'Varsity,  stopped  him  with  a 
blow  known  technically  as  a  "straight  left  to 
the  jaw."  Des  Hosiers  paused  to  collect  his 
thoughts.  He  was  wondering  whether  to  kick 
with  one  foot  or  with  both,  when  something  hap- 
pened, and  oblivion  settled  over  him  like  the 
curtain  on  the  last  act  of  a  melodrama.  Campbell 
had  stepped  forward,  and,  putting  his  shoulder 
behind  it,  had  delivered  a  blow  on  the  lower  part 
of  the  jaw  with  force  enough  to  fell  an  ox.  For 
Des  Hosiers  the  rest  was  silence. 

Concluding  his  recruiting  speech  to  the  dazed 
105 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

villagers,  Campbell  put  on  his  tunic  and  strode 
down  the  street.  .  .  .  But  the  fall  of  Mr.  Peck- 
sniff in  the  eyes  of  Tom  Pinch  was  not  more  com- 
plete than  the  collapse  of  their  idol,  Jacque  Noir, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  inhabitants  of  Ville  Marie. 

Ill 

A  sky  that  was  hung  with  stars  looked  down 
upon  the  shimmering  roof-tops  of  Haileybury. 
The  streets  were  deserted  except  in  the  main 
thoroughfare,  where  a  group  of  men  were  seated 
in  an  irregular  line,  their  pipes  glowing  in  the 
darkness.    They  had  been  there  since  dusk. 

Midnight  passed,  and  the  shadowy  line  was 
longer  as  each  hour  struck.  Men  with  heavy 
packs ;  men  with  the  mud  of  the  northern  wilder- 
ness still  on  their  boots ;  men  who  had  walked  for 
sixty  miles;  men  whose  beardless  chins  bespoke 
the  schoolboys  of  a  year  before ;  men  whose  faces 
would  have  looked  coarse  and  cruel  in  any  light 
but  that  of  the  stars ;  one  by  one  or  in  pairs  they 
came.  For  each  there  was  a  yell  of  welcome,  a 
ribald  jest  or  two — then  silence  once  more,  and 
the  glowing  pipes.  The  first  glimmering  streaks 
of  dawn  showed  the  queue  in  all  its  picturesque 

106 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

grotesqueness.  The  man  in  front  was  leaning 
against  a  frame  store  that  bore  the  placard  "Re- 
cruiting Office." 

Some  three  thousand  miles  away,  a  Hohen- 
zollern  Emperor  had  said  that  the  British  Empire 
would  crumble  into  disintegration  at  the  first 
sound  of  war.  And  through  the  forests  of  the 
north  and  over  weary  trails  men  were  staggering 
on,  mile  after  mile,  fearful  of  one  thing  only — 
that  they  might  be  too  late  to  answer  the  call 
which  had  com^  from  across  the  Atlantic,  speed- 
ing over  forests,  cities,  prairies,  lakes,  and  moun- 
tains until  echo  answered  from  the  shores  of  the 
Pacific  Coast. 

The  early  boat  from  Ville  Marie  discharged  its 
half-dozen  passengers.  A  powerfully  built 
French-Canadian  strode  up  the  hill  and  stopped 
at  the  crowd  of  men.  With  a  worried  contraction 
of  his  heavy  eyebrows  he  surveyed  the  formidable 
length  of  the  line. 

"Godam!"saidhe. 

Heedless  of  the  jests  and  the  comments  of  the 
mob,  he  went  slowly  down  the  line,  carefully 
scrutinizing  each  man,  until  he  stopped  at  a  half- 
breed  Indian.    For  a  moment  only  they  argued 

107 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

in  French,  then  he  produced  a  roll  of  dollar  notes 
in  one  hand,  and  brandished  the  other  hand 
threateningly  in  the  half-breed's  face.  The  com- 
bined arguments  proved  too  much ;  when  the  en- 
rollment of  recruits  took  place,  number  eighteen 
was  Jacque  Des  Hosiers,  sworn  to  serve  His 
Majesty  the  King  for  the  duration  of  the  war 
and  six  months  afterwards — in  witness  whereof 
he  had  drawn  an  inky  cross  after  his  name. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  give  the  exact  motive 
for  his  action.  He  probably  had  never  heard  of 
Belgium,  but — well,  take  horns  and  tail  from  the 
devil,  and  what  is  left? 

Three  weeks  later  the  company  of  amateur 
soldiers  were  warned  to  proceed  to  the  concen- 
tration camp.  Willing,  but  puzzled  by  the  inflic- 
tion of  army  discipline,  they  had  struggled  past 
the  first  pitfalls  of  recruitship.  For  the  sake 
of  Captain  Douglas  Campbell,  their  "boss,"  they 
had  suppressed  their  grumbling  and  submitted 
to  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  military  routine, 
arguing  that,  inexplicable  as  it  was,  it  had  some 
connection,  however  remote,  with  the  ultimate 
goal  of  warfare.  The  afternoon  before  their  de- 
parture Campbell  spoke  to  them  for  exactly  five 

108 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

minutes.  His  hair  looked  redder  and  his  eyes 
seemed  bluer  than  before.  His  powerfully  built 
shoulders  and  the  rhythm  of  his  muscles  lent  a 
grace  to  his  entire  body,  despite  its  ruggedness. 
"Look  here,  you  fellows,"  he  said,  "you  signed 
up  to  fight — so  did  I.  We  will  fight,  too,  but 
Kitchener  can't  use  us  until  we're  ready.  You 
wonder  what  all  this  drill  is  about.  Well,  here's 
my  idea  about  it.  There  isn't  a  coward  in  this 
crowd;  there  isn't  a  man  who  wouldn't  go  down 
a  shaft  after  a  pal,  even  if  the  chances  were  a 
hundred  to  one  against  his  coming  back.  But 
you're  not  ready  for  the  front.  You've  got  the 
heart,  but  your  bodies  must  have  training  and 
discipline.  Watch  me  with  this  cigarette.  In 
flicking  the  ash  I  burn  my  finger;  the  next  time 
I  want  to  touch  the  ash,  my  finger  avoids  it  by  a 
quarter  of  an  inch.  I  laugh  and  try  again.  You 
all  know  what  I  mean.  I  am  not  afraid  of  the 
cigarette,  but  my  finger  is.  If  you've  ever  been 
kicked  in  the  leg  by  a  horse,  the  next  time  that 
horse  kicks,  which  of  your  legs  is  drawn  back 
first?  In  some  strange  way  your  body  has  instincts 
of  its  own,  and  though  you  might  have  a  heart 
like  a  bull,  your  muscles  and  nerves — your  body 

109 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

• — ^might  fail  you  when  you  needed  them  most. 
As  I  understand  the  army  system,  it  is  to  train 
you  to  obey,  not  only  mentally  but  physically. 
Eight  months  from  now  we  may  be  lying  half- 
dead  with  the  enemy's  guns  playing  hell  all 
around  us.  We  may  want  to  quit,  we  may  be 
'all  in,'  but,  if  the  order  comes  to  advance,  we'll 
go  forward,  because  our  bodies  will  be  disciplined 
to  obey. 

"Be  patient  then,  men,  and  just  grin  w^hen 
things  go  wrong.  I  would  gladly  have  gone  with 
you  in  the  ranks,  and  there  are  lots  of  you  chaps 
better  able  to  lead  than  I,  but  a  commission  was 
given  to  me,  and  I'm  out  to  do  my  best  with  the 
finest  company  of  men  in  the  Canadian  Expedi- 
tionary Force.  I'm  learning  all  the  time — as  you 
are.  You  will  have  bad  times,  and  so  shall  I; 
but  let's  help  each  other  to  laugh  and  make  the 
best  of  it,  for,  after  all,  we're  just  great  big  chil- 
dren playing  a  mighty  big  game.  .  .  .  And  when 
we  reach  France  we'll  show  them  all  that  the  old 
Cobalt  gang  is  afraid  of  nothing  in  this  w^orld  or 
the  next." 

They  cheered — and  the  man  who  shouted  loud- 
est was  Jacque  Des  Hosiers.  .  .  .  And  some- 

110 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

where  in  the  speech  esprit  de  corps  had  been 
born. 


IV 


Four  winters  passed  by. 

France  lay  in  the  warmth  of  a  late  spring 
evening,  like  a  stricken  deer  that  has  thrown 
oif  its  pursuers  momentarily,  but  is  bleeding  from 
a  hundred  wounds.  JNIonth  after  month  she  had 
endured  the  invader,  and  the  cycle  of  years, 
instead  of  freeing  her  had  only  deepened  her 
agony.  What  had  she  left?  The  next  attack 
would  see  Arras  and  her  remaining  coalfields 
gone,  the  Channel  ports  captured,  and  then  .  ,  . 
Paris?  .  .  .  Paris? 

Unperturbed,  however,  by  any  such  thoughts. 
Petite  Simunde — no  one  thought  of  her  by  any 
other  name — was  driving  four  cows  home  from 
pasture.  The  setting  sun  shed  a  kindly  hue  on 
her  gingham  garment  that  was  neither  a  frock 
nor  an  apron,  yet  served  as  both.  Nor  was  the 
mellowing  sunlight  unkind  to  her  face,  for  the 
racial  sallowness  of  her  cheeks,  accentuated  by 
too  constant  exposure  to  the  elements,  was  soft- 
Ill 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

ened  and  shaded  into  a  gentle  brown.  Her  shoes, 
which  were  far  too  large,  were  in  the  final  stages 
of  disrepair.  About  the  brow  her  hair  was 
braided  with  a  simplicity  that  was  by  no  means 
devoid  of  charm.  Her  eyes — but  there  she  was 
really  French.  Simunde  had  never  been  farther 
from  the  village  of  Le  Curois  than  the  neighbor- 
ing town  of  Avesnes  Le  Comte  (unless  one  counts 
the  momentous  occasion,  a  year  after  her  birth, 
when  she  was  taken  to  Arras  for  exhibition  before 
an  esteemed  and  wealthy  relative,  who  was  so 
little  impressed  that  he  bequeathed  his  entire 
estate,  consisting  of  eight  thousand  francs,  to  a 
manufacturer  of  tombstones)  ;  but  a  French 
woman  does  not  acquire  coquetry — she  is  born 
with  it.  Even  in  church  Simunde  would  cast  such 
languishing  yet  mischievous  eyes  upon  the  cure 
himself,  that  the  poor  little  man,  who  had  never 
liked  Latin  at  any  time,  used  to  stammer  and 
mumble  his  orisons  like  an  over-conscientious 
penitent  at  confessional. 

When  her  two  brothers  went  to  war  Simunde, 
who  was  then  sixteen,  assumed  their  tasks  in 
addition  to  her  own,  in  all  of  w^hich  she  had  the 
able  direction  of  "madame"  her  mother.  Between 

112 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

them  they  performed  a  day's  work  that  would 
have  exhausted  two  husky  laborers.  As  is  the 
custom  in  most  of  northern  France,  their  home 
was  not  on  the  farm,  but  in  the  village,  for  one 
of  the  first  essentials  of  existence  to  a  Frenchman 
is  companionship.  On  the  outskirts  of  Le  Curois, 
just  on  the  hill,  there  was  a  great  chateau,  beauti- 
fully, gloomily  aloof;  but  in  the  one  street  of  the 
village  itself,  pigs,  cows,  hens  and  their  offspring 
wallowed  in  mud  and  accumulated  filth. 

It  is  difficult  to  know  which  is  the  more  strik- 
ing: the  French  peasant's  stoicism  in  the  presence 
of  war,  or  his  indifference  to  dirt. 

On  this  particular  evening  in  May  of  1918 
Simunde  was  frankly  regretting  the  absence  of 
men.  Not  that  she  had  ever  been  in  love  or 
known  the  rapture  of  wandering  in  the  moonlight 
with  a  man  (France  is  almost  the  only  civilized 
country  remaining  that  has  not  relegated  chap- 
erons to  the  realm  of  fiction) ;  but  she  wanted  to 
use  her  eyes  on  something  more  susceptible  than 
a  cow  or  a  cure.  It  was  spring,  and  she  felt 
pretty,  and  when  a  woman  is  conscious  of  her  own 
charm  she  seldom  wishes  to  prove  miserly  with  it. 

She  had  just  run  across  the  road  to  convince  a 
113 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

COW  of  its  loss  of  the  sense  of  direction  when  she 
heard  the  neighing  of  a  horse.  Glancing  behind 
her,  she  looked  directly  into  the  eyes  of  a  mounted 
British  officer;  whereupon  that  gentleman  brought 
his  steed  to  a  standstill. 

"Bon  soir,  mademoiselle/'  he  said. 

"Bon  soir,  monsieur"  she  answered  demurely. 
Her  eyes  were  lowered  shyly,  and  her  fingers 
played  over  the  stick  she  was  carrying,  like  a  flute- 
player  caressing  his  instrument.  The  officer 
bowed  slightly  and  tried  to  recall  his  French 
vocabulary,  though  it  must  be  admitted  he  was 
never  loquacious  in  any  tongue  when  conversing 
with  a  daughter  of  Eve.  As  for  her,  since  it  is  a 
woman's  role,  she  waited.  Would  he  speak  again 
or  would  he  pass  on,  leaving  the  memory  of  yet 
one  more  meeting  with  a  gentleman  of  adven- 
ture— one  more  roadside  drama  in  which  the 
dialogue  consisted  only  of  an  exchange  of  saluta- 
tions. Most  men  who  have  returned  from  France 
will  recall  for  years  to  come  how,  a  few  kilo- 
metres back  from  Hell,  they  often  caught  a 
glimpse  of  two  dark  eyes  and  a  tender  smile. 
Just  that  and — 

"Bon  soir,  mademoiselle." 
114 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

"Bon  soir,  monsieur." 

Commonplace,  perhaps,  in  the  telling,  but  in 
France  it  was  the  commonplace  that  became 
romance. 

A  smile  crept  into  the  officer's  eyes,  which  were 
blue  and  kindly,  though  they  had  a  glint  in  them 
— something  like  metal — a  look  that  a  mother 
always  noticed  first  when  her  son  returned  from 
the  line. 

"Ou  est  le  village?"  he  ventured. 

"Le  Curois?" 

''Out!    Le  Curois." 

''Mcds,  mormeur" — her  eyes  widened  and  her 
hands  indicated  the  village  dwelhngs — "c'est  id 
Le  Curois!" 

He  breathed  deeply  and  ventured  again. 

"Connaissez-vous  un  billet  pour  dice  officiers?" 
He  felt  rather  pleased  with  the  sentence;  it  was 
true  he  had  intended  to  get  accommodation  for 
eleven  officers,  but  it  was  moderately  accurate  for 
a  foreign  tongue. 

For  answer  Simunde  led  hirn,  preceded  by  the 
four  cows,  to  her  domicile  as  "Madame,"  hke  all 
French  housewives  had  received  billeting  instruc- 
tions in  the  first  year  of  the  war.    In  conjunction 

115 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

with  her  neighbors  on  either  side,  she  speedily- 
arranged  accommodation  for  eleven  officers  in 
their  cottages,  and  for  the  officers'  domestiques  in 
the  barns. 

One  hour  later  the  guests  of  war,  their  bat- 
talion having  come  out  for  a  rest,  were  dining 
comfortably  in  the  home  of  Petite  Simunde, 
while  a  sow,  attended  by  ten  small  pigs,  snorted 
approvingly  outside  the  door. 

Less  than  an  hour  afterwards  Private  Des 
Hosiers,  acting  as  temporary  batman  to  Major 
Douglas  Campbell,  was  sitting  on  a  chair  in 
the  farm-yard,  in  the  glittering  moonlight,  regal- 
ing Simunde  and  her  mother  with  grossly  exag- 
gerated stories  of  the  mining  country  of  Cobalt. 
He  told  them  of  his  misdeeds,  not  in  humility, 
but  with  much  braggadocio,  and  his  auditors  lis- 
tened, lost  in  gesticulatory  admiration.  Simunde 
was  thrilled  from  her  ill-shod  feet  to  her  braided 
brow.  Jacque  Des  Hosiers  was  the  first  really 
wicked  man  she  had  met,  and,  woman-like,  she 
was  fascinated;  also  he  had  nice  teeth  and  flash- 
ing eyes. 

The  picture  of  a  young  officer  on  horseback 
whose  brown  hair  was   almost  red  and  whose 

116 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

humorous  blue  eyes  had  a  glint  in  them  like  metal, 
faded  as  completely  from  her  mind  as  the  mem- 
ory of  the  sunset  that  had  thrown  its  spell  upon 
them. 

Unromantie?  .  .  .  Que  voulez-vous?    C'est  la 
guerre! 


V. 


Two  weeks  passed,  during  which  period  the 
placid  fields  about  Le  Curois  resounded  to  the 
shouts  of  Canadian  troops  rehearsing  open  war- 
fare (for  rumor  had  it  that  the  hour  w^as  almost 
at  hand  when  Foch  was  to  release  the  forces  of 
retribution).  For  pastime,  the  troops  played 
baseball  and  held  field-days  of  many  and  varied 
sports.  Whatever  they  did,  they  shouted  lustily 
and  continuously  while  doing  it,  for  they  had 
mastered  one  elemental  truth — that  nothing  can 
be  accomplished  without  intensity. 

Des  Hosiers  explained  baseball  to  Simunde, 
who  enjoyed  the  description  without  allowing  it 
to  interfere  with  her  innumerable  domestic  and 
agricultural  duties.  It  was  quite  true  that  Jacque 
Noir  had  never  played  the  game  or  even  mastered 

117 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

its  rudiments,  but  he  had  the  narrator's  instinct 
that  rises  above  mere  accuracy  of  detail. 

Every  evening  he  accompanied  Simunde  to  the 
pasture-land,  and  together  they  guided  the 
patient  cows  homeward.  When  darkness  set  in 
and  Simunde's  tasks  were  finished  for  the  day, 
he  sat  with  her  in  the  farm-yard  and  told  lurid 
tales  of  northern  Canada — to  all  of  which 
"madame,"  whose  tasks  were  never  finished,  lent 
a  delighted  and  adjoining  ear. 

He  pictured  to  Simunde  the  snow — how  it 
filled  the  rivers  till  they  ran  no  more ;  how  it  cov- 
ered the  great  pine-trees  until,  as  far  as  eye  could 
see,  there  was  nothing  but  white ;  and  he  told  of 
the  wind  that  was  never  still.  And  she  listened, 
as  only  a  Frenchwoman  can  listen,  with  every 
emotion  he  called  forth  registering  in  her  face,  as 
clouds  racing  across  the  sun  will  throw  their 
shadows  on  the  ground. 

Just  before  the  battalion  was  to  return  to  the 
line,  the  second  in  command,  Major  Douglas 
Campbell,  was  called  to  Divisional  Headquarters 
for  a  prolonged  conference.  As  a  result  Des 
Hosiers  was  returned  to  his  company  for  duty, 
though  he  contrived  to  spend  every  free  hour 

118 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

with  the  little  belle  of  Le  Curois.  As  the  time 
for  parting  approached  with  cruel  celerity,  he 
talked  less  and  took  to  long  spells  of  moody- 
silence.  His  heart  had  been  melted  as  completely 
as  the  snow  in  his  Northland  is  thawed  by  the 
sun  in  spring.  As  for  her,  the  little  artifices  of 
gesture  and  the  ceaseless  coquetry  of  the  eyes 
became  less  noticeable.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  felt  the  anguish  of  a  woman's  tears; 
Petite  Simunde's  guileless  and  innocent  heart 
had  been  won  by  Jacque  Des  Rosiers,  the  bad 
man  of  Northern  Quebec. 

In  a  tempest  of  passionate  ardor,  but  with 
becoming  deference,  he  addressed  his  suit  to  the 
mother,  who  promised  consideration  that  night 
and  her  answer  on  the  morrow. 

It  was  hardly  twilight  when  he  wandered  back 
along  the  main  road  towards  the  fields  w^here  his 
battalion  was  bivouacked.  Full  of  the  picture  of 
the  little  woman  who  had  bewitched  him,  he 
failed  to  notice  the  approach  of  an  exceedingly 
smart  young  staff -officer,  ablaze  in  a  glory  of  red 
and  brass.  With  unseeing  eyes,  Des  Rosiers 
looked  directly  at  the  young  gentleman,  but 
failed  to  make  any  sign.    The  officer,  fresh  from 

119 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

a  staff  course  in  England,  stopped  him  with  a 
sharp  command. 

"Just  a  moment,  my  man.  Don't  you  know 
enough  to  salute?" 

Des  Hosiers  awoke  from  his  dream,  came  to 
attention,  and  saluted  very  badly. 

"I  no  see  you,  sair,"  he  said. 

"Don't  lie  to  me,"  snapped  Brass  Hat  (who 
wasn't  a  bad  chap  on  the  whole)  ;  "of  course  you 
saw  me.  Damn  it,  you  looked  right  at  me.  It's 
fellows  like  you  who  give  the  corps  a  bad  name." 

He  was  wrong  there.  It  was  the  presence  of 
several  thousand  men  like  Des  Hosiers  that  had 
given  the  Canadian  Corps  a  wonderful  name — 
but  let  that  pass,  as  Jack  Point  would  have  said. 

The  element  of  tragedy  seldom  enters  the  lists 
of  life  with  a  fanfare  of  trumpets.  It  steals  in 
unobtrusively,  like  a  poor  relation.  It  comes  in 
the  garb  of  the  commonplace,  or  masked  in  triv- 
iality or  gaiety.  One  is  unaware  of  its  presence 
until  it  throws  off  concealment  and  points  its 
yellow  fingers  at  the  throat  of  its  victims.  What 
dramatist  would  have  read  tragedy  into  the  ab- 
surd tableau  presented  by  a  slouchy  French- 
Canadian  soldier  and  a  youthful  staff -officer? 

120 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

Yet,  as  inexorable  as  Fate,  it  was  approaching 
Jacque  Des  Hosiers,  and  only  a  few  yards  awaj^ 
hiding  its  skeleton's  grin  behind  the  mundane 
countenance  of  Sergeant  Smith,  returning  to  the 
battalion  after  a  day's  work  in  the  orderly  room. 

The  officer,  who  had  just  made  a  move  to  re- 
sume his  walk,  noticed  the  sergeant,  and  called 
him  over. 

"You  are  from  the  same  battalion  as  this 
chap?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Report  him  to  his  company  commander  for 
failing  to  salute  an  officer.  Impress  upon  him 
that  I  would  not  have  made  this  complaint,  but 
your  man  looked  directly  at  me,  and — well, 
discipline  must  be  maintained,  especially  out 
here." 

Whereupon,  feeling  that  he  had  rendered  unto 
Ccesar  the  things  that  were  Cesar's,  the  j^outhful 
captain  sauntered  on  to  the  chateau,  occupied  by 
Divisional  Headquarters,  and  dined  with  extra 
zest.  And  if  it  be  thought  that  this  narrative 
treats  him  unkindly,  let  it  be  written  that,  three 
months  later,  he  was  badly  wounded  while  per- 
forming a  very  gallant  action.    He  was  a  profes- 

121 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

sional  soldier,  somewhat  lacking  in  psychology; 
that  was  all. 

A  little  later  Private  Des  Hosiers  was  ar- 
raigned before  his  company  commander,  a  gentle- 
man who  was  neither  a  soldier  nor  a  psychologist. 
The  heinous  crime  of  passing  an  officer  without 
acknowledgment  was  laid  to  the  charge  of  the 
battle-worn  and  love-lorn  villain  from  Quebec. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?" 

Des  Hosiers  said  it.  The  officer  shook  his 
head. 

"It's  not  good  enough,"  he  said.  "You  French- 
Canadians  seem  to  think  there's  one  law  for  your- 
selves and  another  for  everybody  else.  You  throw 
all  your  comrades  down,  by  deliberately  insulting 
an  officer — a  staff-officer,  who  reports  it  to  the 
G.O.C.,  and  there  you  are.  We're  known  as  a 
bad  battalion  just  because  of  a  few  slackers  like 
you.  Put  him  on  the  horse  line  picket  for  two 
nights,  and  confine  him  to  camp  during  the  day." 

The  prisoner  started.  "Sair,"  he  said,  "I  can 
no  be  here  to-morrow  night.    C'est  impossible/' 

"Oh,  is  it  emposeeble?"  answered  the  officer, 
who  prided  himself  on  a  gift  of  neat  retort.  Des 
Rosiers's  eyes  protruded  to  their  utmost. 

122 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

"By  Gar!"  he  cried,  "and  nex'  morning  we  go 
back  to  the  hne  encore,  yes?" 

"Well?  Have  you  any  objections?  If  so,  I 
am  sure  the  divisional  commander  would  appre- 
ciate hearing  them." 

"Ah,  but  monsieur  Vofficier" — his  hands  were 
stretched  forth  in  an  agony  of  appeal — "Petite 
Simunde,  she  wait  for  me.  I  promise  to  come — 
I  no  come — it  is  terrible!" 

The  judge  in  khaki  laughed. 

"I  am  fed  up  with  the  stories  of  you  French- 
Canadians  and  your  village  sweethearts — and, 
confound  it,  stop  waving  your  hands  about!" 

"Standt'attenshun!"  bellowed  the  sergeant- 
major. 

"Consider  yourself  lucky  to  get  off  so  lightly, 
my  man. — That  will  do,  sergeant-major." 

"Escor'  a'prisoner — ri  tuh — qui'  mawch. — Lef 
ri',  lef  ri',  lef  ri — Pawty,  ha't. — Report  to  horse 
line  N.C.O.  right  away. — Escor',  dees-mi!" 

Rather  late  for  mess,  by  reason  of  holding 
orderly  room  at  an  unusual  hour,  the  company 
commander  sat  down  to  dinner  with  a  glow  of 
virtue  in  his  bosom.  He  had  been  a  lawyer-poli- 
tician in  a  small  Ontario  town,  and  it  pleased 

123 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

him  to  find  that  he  had  not  lost  the  art  of  Buz- 
fuzian  browbeating. 

And  through  it  all  the  Fates  had  woven  a 
thread  of  tragedy  about  the  life  of  Jacque  Noir, 
using  in  their  scheme  of  things  a  non-psychologi- 
cal staff-officer,  a  non-military  and  non-psyscho- 
logical  company  commander,  and  a  sergeant 
whose  name  was  Smith. 

"There  is  humor  in  all  things,"  said  Jack 
Point.  Gilbert  would  have  been  equally  correct 
if  he  had  substituted  the  word  "tragedy." 

Before  sundown  of  the  next  day  the  prisoner 
was  reported  absent,  and  when  the  battalion 
marched  away  for  the  line  Jacque  Des  Rosiers 
was  not  with  it. 

VI 

Four  days  had  passed  before  the  second-in- 
command  rejoined  his  unit  in  the  trenches. 
Campbell  had  been  held  at  Divisional  Head- 
quarters, and  now  for  the  first  time  learned  of 
Des  Rosiers's  desertion.  With  a  stixFening  of 
the  jaw  and  an  ugly  contraction  of  his  shoulders, 
he  quickly  interrogated  tragedy's  mummers — 
a  sergeant  named  Smith  and  a  politician-lawyer 

124 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

company  commander.  To  the  former  he  said 
nothing;  the  man  had  done  his  obvious  duty.  To 
the  company  commander  he  gave  a  careful  hear- 
ing; then,  in  short  staccato  sentences  that  had  an 
odd  resemblance  to  a  machine-gun  in  action,  sub- 
jected him  to  brief  questioning. 

"What  is  Des  Rosiers's  conduct-sheet  like?'* 

"Pretty  bad,  sir." 

"What  were  his  crimes?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  things — dirty  on  C.O.'s  inspec- 
tion, equipment  missing,  late  for  parades,  and 
generally  slovenly.  If  he  hadn't  had  such  a  poor 
sheet,  he  w^ould  have  been  decorated." 

"In  other  words,  his  crimes  are  rest-billet  ones. 
Is  that  correct?" 

"Well— yes,  sir." 

"But  in  the  line  he  earned  a  decoration?" 

"Yes— at  Vimy,  he " 

"Have  you  known  him  to  lie?" 

"Well,  you  know  what  these  French-Canadians 
are  like." 

"You  understand  what  I  mean.  Have  you  ever 
known  him  to  lie  when  put  on  his  honor?" 

"Er— no." 

"When  he  told  you  that  he  had  to  see  this  girl, 
125 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

did  you  find  out  if  he  was  speaking  the  truth?" 

"No,  sir,  I " 

"Did  you  look  for  him  at  this  girl's  place  when 
you  were  coming  away?" 

"I  sent  a  picket  through  the  village." 

The  blue  in  Campbell's  eyes  became  unpleas- 
antly light.  "I  had  Des  Hosiers  in  my  company 
at  Ypres  when  the  Hun  sent  over  his  first  gas — 
you  were  addressing  meetings  in  Canada  at  the 
time — and  I  know  him  for  a  brave  chap,  as  faith- 
ful as  a  dog.  It's  men  like  you  with  a  sense  of 
vision  no  better  than  a  mud-puddle  that  are  mak- 
ing the  French-Canadian  question  another  Irish 
one.  They  are  like  children,  easily  swayed  and 
true  as  steel  to  those  they  trust;  but  as  long  as 
you  and  your  kind  make  a  political  cat's-paw  out 
of  them,  alternately  yelling  'Kamerad'  and 
'Traitor,'  according  to  the  political  exigencies  of 
the  moment,  so  long  will  Canada  be  without  the 
sympathy  and  the  enriching  of  a  wonderfully 
virile  race." 

The  junior  officer's  face  flushed.  "I  acted  ac- 
cording to  the  evidence,"  he  persisted  hotly. 

"Damn  the  evidence!"  said  Campbell  furiously. 
"Play  the  man,  not  the  charge-sheet.    Does  Des 

126 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

Hosiers  strike  you  as  a  chap  who  would  dehber- 
ately  insult  a  staff -officer?  When  he  is  caught 
he  will  be  shot.  It  can't  be  helped — discipline 
must  be  maintained;  but  I  tell  you,  when,  every 
few  days  I  read  in  the  adjutant-general's  orders 
that  Private  So-and-So,  charged  with  desertion 
in  the  presence  of  the  enemy,  was  apprehended 
in  a  certain  village,  tried  by  court-martial,  and 
sentenced  to  be  shot,  sentence  duly  carried  out 
at  4:15  a.  m.  on  such  and  such  a  date — you  know 
the  ghastly  rhytlim  of  the  thing  as  well  as  I  do — 
I  never  read  one  of  these  announcements  with- 
out having  a  bad  ten  minutes  afterwards.  I  don't 
question  the  decision  of  the  court — a  deserter 
must  pay  the  penalty — but,  mark  my  words, 
behind  every  one  of  these  offences  there  is  the 
unseen  part  played  by  some  officer  or  N.C.O.  who 
punished  at  the  wrong  time  or  failed  to  punish 
at  the  right.  There  are  far  too  many  machine- 
made  routine-fed  chaps  in  the  army,  with  stars 
on  their  cuffs,  who  don't  know  that  there  are 
times  when  the  grip  of  a  hand  on  a  Tommy's 
shoulder,  and  a  few  words  as  man  to  man,  free 
of  any  cursed  condescension,  are  worth  all  the 
conduct-sheets  in  existence." 

127 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"You  are  making  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole- 
hill, sir.    I  consider  you  are  very  unfair  to  me." 

"You  do,  eh?  .  .  .  What  about  your  unfair- 
ness to  Des  Hosiers  and  his  little  French  girl, 
when  he  faces  a  firing-squad  in  the  early  morn- 
ing?" 

With  an  angry  gesture,  Campbell  left  the  dug- 
out and  hurried  to  Battalion  Headquarters.  For 
twenty  minutes  he  and  the  colonel,  a  gentleman 
and  a  soldier,  quietly  but  firmly  discussed  the 
case  of  desertion. 

"I  agree  with  everything  you  say,  Campbell," 
said  the  older  man,  "and  I  will  strongly  recom- 
mend mercy  to  the  court;  but  I  am  commanding 
a  unit  made  up  of  many  personahties,  and  must 
think  of  the  example  to  all." 

"Very  good,  sir.  By  the  way,  colonel,  I  know 
where  Des  Rosiers  is." 

"You  do?    Then  send  word  to  the  A.P.M." 

"Excuse  me,  sir;  may  I  go  and  bring  him  my- 
self?   I  ask  this  as  a  very  great  favor." 

The  colonel  pondered  for  a  moment.  "When 
will  you  be  back?"  he  said. 

"Before  'Stand  to'  in  the  morning." 

"Right — but,  Campbell,  my  boy." 
128 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

"Sir." 

"Whatever  you  have  in  mind,  remember  that 
your  duty  and  mine  is  to  think  of  the  example 
to  the  battalion." 

The  blue  in  Campbell's  eyes  deepened;  then, 
with  an  imperious  gesture  of  the  head,  like  that 
of  a  horse  that  hears  the  sound  of  galloping  hoofs 
a  mile  away,  he  saluted. 

"I  shall  not  forget  what  you  say,  sir." 

"Thank  you,  Douglas." 

With  a  restless  impatience  for  delay,  Campbell 
left  the  dug-out  and  climbed  from  the  trench  to 
open  land.  Heedless  of  a  machine-gun  that  spat 
at  him  from  the  enemy  lines,  he  hurried  on  until 
he  reached  the  brigade  transport  lines,  where  he 
secured  a  motor-car. 

"Where  to,  sir?"  asked  the  driver. 

"Le  Curois,"  said  the  major;  "and  drop  me 
just  before  you  come  to  the  village." 


VII 

In  the  scorching  heat  of  a  summer  afternoon, 
Petite  Simunde  was  washing  some  linen  outside 

129 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

her  cottage  home.  The  silence,  like  the  heat,  was 
oppressive,  and  seemed  more  so  by  contrast  with 
the  noise  of  the  troops  who  had  been  there  a 
week  before.  An  apple  falling  from  a  tree  to  the 
ground ;  the  restless  pounding  of  a  horse's  hoof  in 
its  stall;  the  distant  hum  of  an  aeroplane;  the 
rumble  of  guns,  faint  but  ominous — these  and  the 
sighs  of  the  little  woman  at  her  task,  were  the 
only  sounds  that  broke  the  stillness  of  the  air. 

She  heard  footsteps,  and  her  heart,  more  than 
her  eyes,  told  her  that  the  man  she  dreaded  had 
come.  Her  face  blanched,  and  she  caught  her 
breath  with  a  spasm  of  pain. 

"Simunde" — Campbell's  voice  was  gentle  but 
firm — "where  is  Jacque?'* 

She  continued  her  work  without  looking  up. 

"Simunde" — again  the  quiet  monotone  — 
"where  is  Jacque?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "No  compree"  she  fal- 
tered, falling  into  the  jargon  of  war. 

"Simunde!"  There  was  an  inflection  in  his 
voice,  an  almost  imperceptible  note  of  severity, 
that  set  her  heart  throbbing  with  fear.  This  was 
a  new  person  to  her,  this  calm,  stern,  blue-eyed 
man  who  showed  no  excitement,  no  anger,  only  a 

130 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

quiet,  kindly  severity  that  gave  her  no  chance  for 
subterfuge.  She  hated  him  for  his  calmness — 
because  he  was  English — because  he  was  unfair. 
If  he  had  only  shouted  or  gesticulated — but  this 
brown-haired  giant !  To  oppose  him  was  like  try- 
ing to  stem  the  incoming  tide. 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  and  her  dripping 
hands  were  clenched  in  a  fever  of  supplication. 
Madly  she  pleaded  for  her  lover,  as  a  woman  will 
plead  only  for  the  man  she  loves  or  for  her  child. 
Tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  and  her  voice  was 
choked  with  sobs. 

Patiently  he  listened,  gathering  from  the 
anguish  more  than  from  her  words  the  story  he 
had  already  guessed.  In  a  climax  of  grief,  she 
groped  for  him  with  her  hands  and  would  have 
cried  on  his  breast.  But  he  made  no  move ;  only 
his  eyes  were  very  grave  and  tender. 

"Simunde,"  he  reiterated  in  English,  "where  is 
Jacque?" 

With  a  shrill  cry  of  rage,  she  stamped  her  foot 
on  the  ground.  This  great  iceberg  of  a  man  was 
a  devil!  He  had  come  for  her  lover.  He  would 
take  Jacque  away  to  be  shot.  With  an  involun- 
tary instinct  of  dismay,  she  glanced  at  the  barn 

131 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

some  little  distance  away;  then,  fearful  that  he 
had  read  her  meaning,  she  forced  a  smile  with 
her  lips. 

Without  a  word,  he  put  her  gently  aside  and 
started  for  the  barn.  He  had  gone  ten  steps  be- 
fore she  moved,  when  he  heard  her  hurried 
breathing  and  her  hands  were  on  his  arm. 

"Monsieur,"  she  cried — "monsieur  le  major — 
Jacque — Jacque  keel  you!"  She  spoke  in  broken 
English,  remembering  one  of  Des  Rosiers's 
stories  of  his  misdeeds.  Releasing  her  fingers, 
he  reached  the  barn  in  a  few  short  paces.  Open- 
ing the  door,  he  cautiouslj^^  entered  and  tried  to 
accustom  himself  to  the  semi-darkness — and  saw 
the  barrel  of  a  rifle  in  the  loft  slowly  aligning 
itself  in  his  direction. 

"Des  Rosiers!"  His  voice  rang  out  like  a 
pistol-shot.    "It  is  I — your  officer!" 

There  was  no  sound  for  almost  a  full  minute, 
then  the  rifle  was  withdrawn,  and  the  unshaved, 
disheveled  French-Canadian  stood  before  him. 

"Why  you  come?"  he  said  brokenly.  "I  can 
no  shoot  my  officier.    Why  you  come,  eh?" 

"Because  you  will  go  back  with  me,  Des 
Rosiers." 

132 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

The  deserter's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "By  Gar!" 
he  said,  "it  is  not,  what  you  say,  play  fair.  I 
say  I  shoot  who  come,  and  Jacque  Des  Hosiers, 
he  is  no  afraid.  But  you — ^my  boss — mais  non! 
Maybe  I  go  back  with  you  and  maybe  they  shoot 
me,  yes?" 

"You  have  deserted,  and  the  punishment  is — 
well,  you  know  as  well  as  I.  If  you  come  with 
me  now  there  is  a  small  chance  of  mercy." 

The  man's  eyes  flashed.  "I  no  ask  for  mercy," 
he  cried.  "I,  Jacque  Des  Hosiers  want  mercy? 
Pouf !  I  laugh.  They  tell  me  I  no  see  Simunde 
again,  when  I  do  nottings  wrong.  Tres  hien — I 
say  sometings  about  it  too.  I  go,  I  stay — mem' 
chose;  I  am  shot.   Good!  I  stay  with  Simunde." 

Campbell  took  a  step  forward,  and  there  was 
metal  in  his  voice  as  well  as  in  his  eyes.  His  hand 
fell  on  the  other's  shoulder  and  gripped  it  like  a 
vice.  "You  will  come  back  with  me,"  he  said, 
and  again  there  was  a  strange  similarity  to  a 
machine-gun;  "not  that  you  may  receive  mercy, 
but  because  you  are  a  coward,  and  must  face 
your  punishment  for  desertion  in  the  presence  of 
the  enemy." 

Des  Rosiers's  face  darkened. 
133 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Now,  at  this  minute,"  went  on  Campbell, 
"the  battalion,  your  battalion  and  mine,  is  in  the 
line.  Because  you  were  not  there,  another  man 
is  in  your  place,  perhaps  at  sentry  duty.  He  may 
be  dead  by  now — and  why?  Because  he  did  his 
duty,  and  took  the  place  of  a  man  who  was 
afraid." 

The  French-Canadian's  breath  was  hot  with 
fury.  He  clenched  his  fists,  and  great  veins 
stood  out  on  his  forehead.  "By  gosh,  me!"  he 
yelled;  "who  say  Jacque  Noir,  she  is  afraid?" 

With  apparent  calm,  but  his  muscles  poised  for 
action,  the  officer  looked  squarely  at  him.  "I 
say  you  are  a  coward,"  he  answered.  "You  were 
afraid  to  go  to  the  line  with  your  comrades.  You 
are  afraid  now  to  face  your  punishment." 

He  noticed  that  Jacque  was  crouching  for  a 
spring.  With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  he  pro- 
duced a  cigarette-case  and  put  a  cigarette  into 
his  mouth. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

It  was  the  second  time  he  had  beaten  Des 
Hosiers.  The  poor  fellow  paused,  then  fell  at 
his  feet  and  exhausted  his  passion  in  a  sobbing 

134 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

explanation  that  would  have  been  ludicrous  but 
for  the  sincerity  of  anguish  behind  it. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  went  together  from 
the  barn.  Simunde  was  standing  by  her  door. 
From  the  interior  of  the  house  the  lamentations 
of  "madame"  could  be  heard.  With  a  simplicity 
that  strangely  ennobled  the  rough  fellow,  Des 
Hosiers  stopped  and  spoke  to  Simunde  in  French, 
then  kissed  her  on  the  lips  with  a  reverence 
that  was  more  moving  than  the  deepest  passion. 
Without  a  word,  he  entered  the  motor-car  and 
stared  fixedly  ahead  at  the  road  which  climbed 
b}^  the  chateau.  With  a  half-sob,  Simunde  turned 
to  the  officer.  She  said  nothing,  but  her  tears 
spoke  a  language  that  needed  no  words.  The 
metal  in  his  eyes  melted  into  a  deep  compassion- 
ate blue;  and  Petite  Simunde's  troubled  little 
heart  thanked  God  for  the  great,  broad-shoul- 
dered man  with  the  hair  that  was  almost  red. 


VIII 

The  two  men  slept  in  a  deserted  hut  that  night, 
but  an  hour  before  daybreak  they  were  wending 

135 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

their  way  through  the  communication-trenches 
to  the  front  line.  It  was  half-an-hour  before 
"Stand  to"  when  the  major  and  his  unkempt  com- 
panion reached  the  last  dark  trench  where  sen- 
tries were  straining  their  eyes  at  the  blackness 
of  No  Man's  Land.  A  junior  officer  stepped  up 
to  the  major  and  reported,  quietly,  the  situation 
during  the  night. 

"They've  got  a  machine-gun  post,"  he  said  at 
the  end,  "somewhere  over  by  those  three  trees. 
Can  you  see  them,  sir?  They  got  five  of  our  chaps 
last  night  and  two  the  night  before." 

"Humph!  They  tried  for  me  too,  yesterday 
afternoon.  Can't  the  guns  do  anything?" 

"They've  tried,  sir,  but  the  rise  in  the  ground 
seems  to  protect  them  from  anything  except  a 
direct  hit." 

Even  in  the  darkness  the  young  lieutenant 
could  notice  the  sudden  look  of  decision  which 
flashed  into  Campbell's  eyes. 

"Give  me  an  A  form,"  he  said  tersely. 

The  lieutenant  handed  him  a  message-pad  on 
which  he  wrote  a  few  words. 

"See  that  the  colonel  gets  this,"  he  said,  "and 
pass  word  along  to  the  other  companies  that  Pri- 

136 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

vate  Des  Hosiers  and  I  are  going  to  get  that 
machine-gun  post ;  so  if  we  come  back  don't  give 
us  too  hot  a  reception  from  your  sentries. — Ser- 
geant, some  bombs. — And  let  Des  Hosiers  have 
that  revolver,  old  chap.  ]\Iy  batman  will  give 
you  one  of  mine.    Right — thanks." 

"But,  sir" — the  young  officer  was  vastly 
troubled — "it's  not  up  to  you.  I'll  go,  major. 
Honestly,  I  want  to " 

"Thanks,  old  man;  but  this  is  a  bigger  job 
than  it  looks.  Not  that  you  couldn't  do  it  as  well 
or  better,  but — well,  I've  set  my  heart  on  going, 
that's  all." 

He  glanced  at  Des  Hosiers,  and  noticed  that 
his  face  was  grim  and  set. 

"But,  my  officier,  it  is  not  fair,"  began  the 
French-Canadian;  "it " 

"Not  fair?"  There  was  a  rasping  sound  in  the 
major's  voice. 

"For  me,  mais  out,  but  for  you,  non.  Please — 
I  do  my  bes' — I  go  alone.'* 

Without  a  word,  the  second-in-command  put 
out  his  hand  and  grasped  that  of  the  deserter; 
and  Des  Hosiers  felt  that  death  for  the  other 
would  be  easy.     Truly,  as  Campbell  had  said, 

137 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

war  is   a  great  big  game,   and  men   are   like 
children. 

Three  minutes  later  two  figures  were  crawling 
like  panthers  towards  the  German  lines. 


IX 


The  colonel  of  the  battalion  took  the  message 
from  the  runner's  hand.  It  contained  seven 
words ; 

'^As  an  eccamplj  to  the  battalion. 

Campbell.^' 

"What's  that  noise?" 

"Sounds  like  Mills  bombs,"  said  the  adjutant. 

"And  revolvers,"  muttered  the  colonel,  and 
swore  softly  to  himself  with  a  lip  that  quivered 
strangely. 

X 

If  ever  you  go  to  the  Cobalt  country,  do  not 
fail  to  take  the  boat  to  Ville  Marie,  on  the  blue 
shores  of  Pontiac. 

There  is  an  excellent  hostelry  at  Ville  Marie 
called   "Les   Voyageurs,"   where   a  little   lady, 

138 


PETITE  SIMUNDE 

known  as  Petite  Simunde,  has  worked  wonders 
in  making  it  the  cosiest,  snuggest,  neatest  little 
place  that  ever  warmed  the  heart  of  a  lumber- 
jack or  a  mining-prospector.  At  night  her  hus- 
band leads  the  singing  with  a  mighty  voice  that 
shakes  the  rafters;  for  did  not  the  former  pro- 
prietor, Pierre  Generaud,  say  that  singing 
encouraged  thirst? 

At  times,  when  Madame  Des  Hosiers  is  away 
for  a  day,  Jacque  Noir  will  regale  his  old  friends 
with  tales  of  his  past  life,  stories  that  differ  with 
every  telling,  and  seem  to  indicate  that  the  nar- 
rator himself  is  beginning  to  doubt  their  accu- 
racy. At  these  times,  too,  he  has  been  known  to 
sing  of  a  sailor  who  loved  a  Portuguese  maid; 
but  at  the  first  sound  of  his  wife's  footsteps  out- 
side Monsieur  Pes  Hosiers  is  the  model  husband, 
a  role,  to  be  frank,  which  suits  him  quite  well. 

When  the  snow  is  very  thick  on  the  ground, 
and  the  wind  howls  mournfully  over  the  lake, 
Jacque  Noir  talks  of  France  and  the  weary  years 
of  war.  He  will  point  with  pride  to  his  artificial 
foot,  and  then  to  his  decoration,  and  slowly  tell 
how  two  men  went  out  into  the  dark  after  a 
machine-gun  post. 

139 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

And  when  the  guests  are  gone  and  the  fire  is 
low,  when  the  wind  is  moaning  quietly,  while 
the  snow  falls  thick — thick — thick — they  speak 
to  each  other  of  the  officer  who  will  never  come 
back;  of  the  one  whose  hair  was  brown,  almost 
like  red;  whose  blue  eyes  were  stern,  and  yet  so 
kind. 

Hand-in-hand  they  sit  close  together,  and  the 
only  sounds  are  those  of  the  crackling  logs  and 
the  wind  that  is  never  still. 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 


DENNIS  MONTAGUE  of  Toronto 
emerged  from  his  bath,  glowing  and  talka- 
tive. A  luxurious  deep-blue  dressing-gown  was 
wrapped  about  his  form,  its  color  accentuating 
the  gray-blue  of  his  eyes.  His  valet  stood  beside 
his  bed,  on  which  there  reposed  a  set  of  garments 
suitable  for  a  gentleman  bent  on  spending  an 
evening  out. 

"Ah,  Sylvester!  That's  right.  We  poor  devils 
must  look  as  well  as  the  abominable  fashions  will 
permit.  Did  you  ever  wonder  why  the  men  of 
to-day  are  so  commonplace  ?  It  is  the  clothes  they 
wear." 

Mr.  Sylvester  took  the  dressing-gown  and 
hung  it  in  the  closet. 

"For  instance,  my  dear  fellow,  to-night  I  am 
in  a  devilishly  brilliant  mood ;  almost  any  moment 

141 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

now  I  might  say  something  clever.  If  I  had  my 
way,  I  should  dress  in  scarlet,  like  a  toreador, 
and  when  I  spoke,  my  sentences  would  have 
something  of  the  dart  about  them.  .  .  .  Such 
would  be  the  fusion  of  temperament  and  costume. 
Instead  of  which — by  the  way,  mix  me  a  cocktail 
— I  am  forced  to  put  on  this  hideous  shirt  and  a 
swallow-tailed  monstrosity  that  gives  one  the 
appearance  of  a  reformed  chimney-sweep.  A 
greater  man  than  either  of  us,  Sylvester,  said 
that  the  world  was  all  a  stage.  Then  why  the 
deuce  don't  we  dress  for  our  parts?" 

"  'Ere's  your  cocktail,  sir." 

"Good— excellent.   What's  the  time?" 

"Gone  past  seven-thirty,  sir." 

"By  Jove!  I  shall  be  late.  I  am  always  late, 
my  dear  chap ;  it  partly  accounts  for  my  extraor- 
dinary popularity.  A  hostess  is  so  relieved  to 
see  me  by  the  time  I  turn  up  that  for  years  after- 
wards she  associates  my  face  with  pleasant  sen- 
sations.    Any  mail,  Sylvester?" 

His  servant  crossed  to  the  table,  on  which 
there  reposed  four  letters.  "These  came  in  this 
afternoon,  sir." 

"Read  them  to  me  while  I  dress." 
142 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

"Read  them,  Mr.  JNIontague?"  The  valet's 
face  was  a  study  of  respectful  expostulation. 

"Is  the  idea  so  preposterous,  my  dear  fellow? 
I  believe  most  people  write  letters  with  the  idea 
of  having  them  read." 

The  decorous  Sylvester  sighed,  and  broke  the 
seal  of  the  first  letter.  "I  would  beg  to  remind 
you,"  he  read,  "that  your  account " 

Montague  made  a  deprecatory  gesture.  "How 
polite  these  trades-people  are!"  he  said.  "I  shall 
expect  on;^  some  day  to  enclose  forget-me-nots. 
The  next  letter?" 

Sylvester  solemnly  opened  a  diminutive  enve- 
lope. "Mrs.  W.  De-Ponsy  Harris  requests  the 
pleasure " 

"Another  request!  What  is  it — a  tea  or  a 
dance?" 

"A  dinner,  sir." 

"Good!  I  ^hall  go.  ^Irs.  Harris  is  the  worst 
hostess  in  the  city,  but  she  keeps  the  best  cook. 
Proceed." 

The  worthy  Sylvester  took  from  the  table  a 
delicately  scented  letter  that  breathed  its  delight- 
ful suggestion  of  romance  to  his  grateful  nostrils, 
whereupon  he  promptly  blushed  a  deep,  unlovely, 

143 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

tomato-like  red.  "It  starts,"  said  he,  "  'My  Dear- 
est Love ' " 

His  master  glanced  at  him.  "Don't  blush,"  he 
said.  "The  grande  passion  is  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of."  He  carefully  adjusted  his  tie. 
"What  is  the  young  lady's  name?" 

"Myrtle,  sir." 

"Ah,  yes;  poor  little  Myrtle!  What  a  pity  a 
woman  clings  to  a  romance  that  is  dead.  There 
is  something  morbid  in  women  that  makes  them 
do  it.    It  is  like  embracing  a  corpse." 

"Shall  I  read  it,  sir?" 

"No,  no;  don't  bother.  I  know  what  is  in  it. 
On  the  third  page  she  declares  she  hates  me,  and 
on  the  fifth  she  denies  it.  Myrtle  runs  so  deuc- 
edly  to  form." 

A  look  of  relief  crossed  the  rotund  countenance 
of  Mr.  Sylvester  as  he  took  up  the  last  letter.  "It's 
from  a  society  for  educating  the  poor,  sir." 

"Tear  it  up.  What  we  need  is  a  society  for 
educating  the  rich."  Completely  dressed,  Mon- 
tague turned  round  and  struck  an  attitude.  "It 
is  my  intention  some  day,"  he  said  with  mock 
airiness,  "to  found  a  Conservatoire  Universelle^ 
where  philanthropists  will  be  taught  charity,  min- 

144* 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

isters  of  the  gospel  gain  humility,  musicians  learn 
to  feel,  and  newspaper  writers  take  up  the  ele- 
ments of  language.  Heavens!  such  scope  as  I 
should  have!  Stick  your  head  out  of  the  window 
and  see  if  a  taxi  is  waiting." 

Sylvester  raised  the  window  and  surveyed  the 
street  below.  "It's  there,  sir,"  he  said,  drawing 
his  head  in. 

"Then  I  shall  leave  you.  Mrs.  Le  Roy  is  giving 
a  dinner-party  this  evening,  and  she  invariably 
has  guests  who  listen  charmingly.  Good-night, 
Sylvester." 

"Good-night,  sir." 

When  he  was  gone,  William  Sylvester 
scratched  his  thinly  covered  head.  He  then 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  followed  this  action 
by  pouring  out  a  glass  of  sherry.  He  took  a  sip. 
"  'Eavens!"  he  said  aloud;  "  'ow  'e  do  talk!" 


II 


Montague  leaned  back  in  the  taxicab  and,  en- 
joying that  sense  of  contentment  almost  invari- 
ably engendered  by  a  smooth-running  vehicle, 

145 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

allowed  his  mind  to  browse  in  the  meadows  of 
memory. 

It  was  a  process  which  gave  him  considerable 
pleasure,  for  he  was  a  man  who  respected  his  own 
accomplishments — though  given  to  satirical  com- 
ment on  those  of  others.  Satisfaction  with  his 
past  had  bred  in  him  a  contentment  with  the 
present.  .  .  .  And  he  never  doubted  the  future; 
for  was  not  to-morrow  merely  to-day  carried  on  ? 

There  were  many  reasons  tending  towards  his 
peace  of  mind.  One:  that  he  was  twenty-eight 
years  of  age.  At  such  a  period  in  a  man's  life  he 
meets  older  men  on  a  footing  of  equality,  and 
younger  men  with  patronage.  Women  of  all  ages 
admire  him,  and  their  husbands  ask  him  to  lunch 
at  their  clubs.  There  is  no  age  more  gratifying 
to  the  vanity. 

The  man  of  twenty-eight  is  an  Ambassador  of 
Youth  meeting  the  Plenipotentiaries  of  Age  as 
an  equal. 

Unfortunately  for  Dennis  Montague,  he  al- 
lowed his  own  excellent  opinion  of  himself  to 
deepen  with  the  admiration  of  others  until  it  com- 
pletely outstripped  all  rivals.  At  twenty-six  he 
had  his  first  great  love  affair — with  himself.    At 

146 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

twenty-eight  it  had  ripened  into  a  sort  of  rever- 
ence. Occasionally  he  flirted  with  women,  but 
such  incidents  were  mere  inconstancies,  peccadil- 
los, which  never  seriously  threatened  his  own 
overwhelming  affaire  d'amour. 

Born  in  Ottawa,  Dennis  was  the  son  of  an 
ambitious  mother  and  a  high-placed  Government 
official.  Educated  for  the  law,  he  had  applied  a 
dexterous  intellect  to  that  noble  and  musty  study, 
and  had  succeeded  in  having  himself  called  to  the 
Bar  when  he  was  twenty-three.  Up  to  that  time 
he  had  known  no  other  civilization  than  that 
found  in  the  capital  of  his  native  land,  where  a 
peer  of  the  realm,  graciously  appointed  by  the 
Imperial  Government  to  act  as  interpreter  be- 
tween the  Mother  Country  and  the  Dominion  of 
Canada,  regularly  spends  his  appointed  term  at 
the  Government  House,  thereby  stimulating  Ot- 
tawa's social  activities  to  fever-heat.  It  even 
produces  a  philosophy  of  its  own  among  the  cap- 
ital's tuft-hunters.  For,  even  if  this  governor- 
general  doesn't  ask  us  to  dinner,  there's  always 
a  chance  that  the  next  one  will. 

Montague  became  a  noted  figure  in  Ottawa's 
younger  social  set,  and,  though  he  expressed  con- 

147 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

tempt  for  all  such  things,  found  a  certain  grati- 
fication in  seeing  his  name  appear  constantly  in 
the  social  columns  of  the  city's  press.  It  was  a 
soothing  sensation  to  read  the  chronicle  of  his 
adolescent  activities.  .  .  .  Few  people  can  resist 
a  glow  of  pleasure  on  seeing  in  the  morning  paper 
that  they  were  where  they  were  the  previous 
evening. 

Even  in  the  remotest  rural  districts  of  America 
the  weekly  journal  records  that  "Hank  Wilson 
went  over  to  Hiram  Johnston's  farm  at  Hen's 
Creek  to  see  his  new  barn.  Hiram  Johnston  is 
one  of  the  most  enterprising  farmers  that  we 
got." 

But — there  is  something  solid  about  that  barn. 

After  the  legal  profession  had  opened  its  por- 
tals to  Montague  he  moved  to  Toronto,  accepting 
a  junior  partnership  in  a  firm  of  some  standing. 
To  his  amazement,  he  found  that  in  Toronto  the 
entree  into  the  best  circles — and  he  could  not 
exist  in  any  other — was  more  difficult  than  in 
Ottawa.  Though  both  cities  had  that  reverence 
for  wealth  which  is  universal,  Toronto's  large 
population  made  a  sudden  and  successful  debut 
far  from  easy.    There  were  so  many  sets — those 

148 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

who  yachted,  danced,  and  golfed;  those  who 
danced  and  golfed ;  and  those  who  merely  golfed. 
Montague  decided  that  the  last  class  was  too 
fatiguing. 

Then  there  were  those  extraordinary  people 
who  practiced  the  arts  in  an  amiable  way.  There 
is  probably  no  city  in  the  world  where  there 
exists  more  comfortable  talent  than  in  Toronto. 
For  a  time  music  was  the  occupation  of  musicians, 
but  society  embraced  it,  to  the  benefit  of  them 
both,  with  the  result  that  musical  homes  abound. 

This  worried  ^lontague.  The  younger  set  in 
Ottawa  knew  no  such  phenomena. 

Looking  farther  afield,  he  next  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  University  family,  an  after- 
growth of  the  larger  life  of  Toronto  'Varsity.  But 
he  avoided  that.  His  mind  was  dexterous,  but 
needed  lesser  minds  beside  it  to  give  it  the  sparkle 
of  contrast. 

In  desperation  he  turned  to  the  purely  nou- 
veauw  riches,  only  to  find  that  they  had  made 
entangling  alliances  with  all  the  other  fraterni- 
ties. 

There  was  only  one  well  untapped — the  Cana- 
dian Militia;  but  his  mind  rejected  that  at  once. 

149 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

He  had  always  agreed  with  Disraeli  that  soldier- 
ing was  fit  only  for  fools  in  peace-time  and  for 
barbarians  in  times  of  war. 

He  joined  the  Royal  .Canadian  Yacht  Club. 

His  dinner-parties  on  the  verandas  of  that 
beautiful  place  caused  him  to  be  noticed.  A 
friend  of  his  introduced  him  to  one  of  the  society 
reporters.  He  invited  her  to  a  dinner,  and  sent 
her  home  in  a  limousine. 

Toronto  wavered.  He  was  certainly  good- 
looking,  and  had  not  the  ''C'est  entendu"  column 
of  one  of  the  largest  dailies  recorded  that  "Mr. 
Dennis  Montague's  dinner-parties  at  the  Yacht 

Club  have  a "  followed  by  several  French 

words  that  were  most  impressive? 

With  the  genius  of  a  great  general,  he  saw 
that  the  gates  were  unlocked.  Now  for  some 
stroke  to  thrust  them  open!  For  two  months 
he  cogitated,  and  then  one  day  it  came  to  him 
with  a  flash,  as  ideas  occasionally  present  them- 
selves to  authors. 

He  engaged  Mr.  Sylvester  as  a  valet.  Toronto 
society  surrendered  unconditionally. 

It  was  not  so  much  that  Sylvester  was  a  valet, 
but  that  he  had  a  nice  appreciation  of  effect. 

150 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

Sometimes,  when  his  master  was  playing  tennis 
on  the  lawns  of  the  Yacht  Club,  the  unobtrusive 
servant  would  be  seen  patiently  waiting  outside 
the  wire-screen,  with  a  letter,  or  a  suit-case,  or 
some  verbal  question  concerning  domestic  econ- 
omy. Montague  appeared  annoyed  and  raised 
his  salary. 

But  triumph  is  satisfying  only  if  it  leads  to 
further  victories ;  and  Dennis  began  to  cast  about 
for  some  role  which  would  distinguish  him  from 
his  fellows.  The  death  of  his  father  handed  on 
to  him  a  yearly  income  which  made  his  position 
secure;  but  he  was  not  satisfied.  It  was  then 
that  he  learned  to  scoff. 

It  was  an  experiment  at  first,  but  an  imme- 
diately successful  one.  His  brain,  ahvays  keen 
and  linked  to  a  facile  vocabulary,  became  focused 
on  the  unlovel)'^  task  of  ridiculing  life;  and  as 
he  was  ever  careful  not  to  satirize  the  set  with 
whom  he  was  dining,  his  popularity  became  tre- 
mendous. By  a  process  of  catalogue  culture  he 
was  able  to  talk  on  a  variety  of  subjects;  his 
method  being  that  if  one  heard  the  waltz  from 
La  Bolieme,  one  was  entitled  to  discuss  Puccini. 
One  of  Brangwyn's  earlier  efforts  in  a  friend's 

151 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

house  was  sufficient  basis  for  him  to  pose  as  a 
judge  of  etchings.  He  read  part  of  one  book 
by  a  myriad  of  writers,  then  discarding  their 
works,  held  forth  on  the  authors  themselves. 

With  young  men  of  observant  and  creative 
minds  there  are  two  paths  which,  early  in  life's 
journey,  offer  puzzling  deviation.  To  follow 
one  (and  to  youth  it  seems  the  less  attractive), 
a  man  must  bend  his  faculties  to  the  discovering 
and  the  interpreting  of  the  beauty  of  life;  the 
other  leads  to  the  annihilation  of  everything  that 
is  genuine  and  that  can  be  used  as  a  target  for 
cynicism.  Montague  chose  the  second  path,  and 
spared  nothing  but  himself. 

Even  when  the  war  gripped  the  city,  and  one 
by  one  the  little  gods  of  puny  social  life  crashed 
impotently  to  destruction,  he  continued  his  glit- 
tering way  unperturbed.  The  war  was  young, 
and  the  1st  Canadian  Division  was  merely  hold- 
ing the  line  somewhere  near  a  place  called  Ypres. 
.  .  .  The  market  for  superficiahty  was  still 
brisk. 

The  taxi  came  to  a  stop  outside  a  lovely  home 
in  Chestnut  Park,  and,  paying  the  driver,  Mon- 
tague mounted  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell. 

152 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

**I  wonder,"  he  mused,  "who  the  deuce  I  shall 
have  as  a  dinner  partner?" 


Ill 


After  his  usual  apologies  for  tardiness,  Mon- 
tague led  ]Mrs.  Le  Roy  in  to  dinner,  and  like  the 
seasoned  campaigner  he  had  hecome,  glanced  at 
the  guests  for  conversational  adversaries.  His 
host  and  hostess  were  noisy  and  given  to  plati- 
tudes ;  there  was  a  soft-voiced  American  from  the 
South  who  seemed  only  anxious  to  be  attentive 
and  courteous  to  the  w^oman  next  him;  on  the 
other  side  there  was  a  young  woman  who  was 
so  consistently  effusive  that  she  was  the  most 
invited-out  guest  in  Toronto — but  never  had  a 
love  affair;  beside  her  was  a  young  subaltern  in 
an  obviously  new  uniform.  JNIontague  had  a 
vague  idea  that  he  had  seen  that  well-groomed 
uninspired  face  in  some  bank.  And  he  was 
right.  Less  than  six  months  back  the  bank  man- 
ager had  written  to  the  General  Office  about  this 
youth — "He's  a  decent  enough  fellow,  but  lack- 
ing in  initiative." 

153 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Just  beyond  the  subaltern  Montague  saw  the 
finely  chiseled  features  of  Vera  Dalton,  and  for 
some  reason  unknown  to  himself  his  color 
mounted  as  their  eyes  met.  He  had  known  her  in 
Ottawa,  though  she  had  steadfastly  avoided  his 
friends,  and  later,  when  her  parents  had  come  to 
Toronto,  he  had  seen  her  at  odd  intervals.  He 
liked  to  think  of  her  as  an  old  friend,  though 
there  was  something  about  her  that  made  his  flip- 
pancy difficult  in  her  presence;  but  beyond  their 
occasional  meetings  at  certain  houses,  neither  one 
had  made  any  attempt  to  develop  the  friend- 
ship. 

She  was  fair  without  being  blond,  and  avoiding 
the  riotous  climax  of  color  so  tempting  to  fair 
women,  she  dressed  in  subtle  shades,  with  colors 
suggested  rather  than  displayed.  Her  face  had  a 
poise  and  a  composure  that  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  placidity ;  and  she  was  feminine  without 
being  helpless  or  making  a  constant  sex  appeal. 
She  had  always  interested  Montague,  and  even 
though  their  conversations  had  consisted  of 
neatly  worded  nothings,  her  memory  had  a  habit 
of  lingering  with  him  in  a  way  that  disturbed  his 
self-admiration.     Two  things  he  felt  about  her 

154 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

— one,  that  she  dishked  him;  the  other,  that  he 
held  some  power  over  her. 

He  removed  his  eyes  from  hers,  and,  glancing 
for  a  moment  at  the  remaining  guests,  who  sat 
hke  a  jury  with  ]Mr.  Le  Roy  at  the  end  as  fore- 
man, he  drained  his  glass  and  leaped  into  the  con- 
versational ring  with  a  vivacious  effrontery  that 
was  startling.  Naturally  of  high  spirits  and  eas- 
ily stimulated  by  applause,  he  juggled  phrase  and 
quotation,  tossed  words  into  the  air,  and,  as 
though  he  were  a  conjurer,  watched  them  link  to- 
gether into  ideas.  He  held  his  listeners  in  won- 
der and  challenged  them  all  on  subjects  ranging 
from  New  Thought  to  the  latest  scandal.  Once 
the  American  held  him  with  a  witty  retort,  but 
jMontague  feinted  with  an  epigram  and  stabbed 
him  with  a  paradox.  On  one  occasion  the  newly 
created  subaltern,  stirred  by  wine  and  a  certain 
courage  derived  from  his  khaki,  threw  a  truism 
into  the  arena  in  the  hope  that  it  would  trip 
the  talker,  but  [Montague,  catching  it  on  the  point 
of  his  wit,  twirled  it  about,  and  hurled  it  at  its 
source,  laughing  as  the  discomfited  young  of- 
ficer retired  behind  the  barriers  of  self-conscious 

silence. 

155 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

His  hearers  applauded  by  look  and  word,  and 
Mrs.  Le  Roy  whispered  to  her  servant  to  keep 
JNIontague's  glass  full.  .  .  .  She  was  delighted. 
.  .  .  She  had  never  seen  him  glitter  so. 

And  JMontague  noted  the  applause,  emptying 
his  glass  again  and  again ;  but  it  was  neither  wine 
nor  the  incense  of  flattery  that  had  stirred  his 
pulse  to  such  energy.  ...  In  that  glance  from 
Vera's  eyes  he  had  read  a  truth.  His  power, 
whatever  it  was,  had  mastered  her  dislike,  and  he 
knew  that  in  the  evening  before  him  she  would 
bend  in  his  arms  as  the  bow  yields  to  the  strength 
of  the  archer. 

IV 

After  dinner  they  danced.    Mrs.  Le  Roy  was 

not  a  gifted  hostess,  but  she  acted  on  the  prin- 
ciple that  food,  wine  and  music — provided  the 
food  and  the  wine  were  high-class,  and  the  music 
was  not — would  make  any  evening  a  success. 
Few  of  her  guests  disagreed  with  her ;  their  feet 
and  their  tongues  were  light,  and  they  danced 
and  talked  without  self-consciousness  or  mental 
effort. 

Twice  Montague  had  danced  with  the  girl,  but 
156 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

it  amused  him  to  leave  her  each  time  with  some 
mocking  pleasantry,  the  only  answer  to  the 
smoldering  question  of  her  eyes.  It  was  nearly 
midnight  when  he  led  her,  almost  without  asking, 
into  the  deserted  recess  of  the  Le  Roy's  conserva- 
tory, and,  beckoning  her  to  a  settee,  sat  down  be- 
side her.  With  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap 
she  gazed  fixedly  at  the  shadow}^  garden  show- 
ing outside. 

IMontague  looked  at  her,  and  his  eyes  grew 
bright  as  they  noted  her  poise,  tempered  by  fear 
of  him.  He  leaned  over  and  rested  his  hand  on 
hers. 

"Please  don't,"  she  said  quietly,  making  no 
effort  to  withdraw  her  own. 

"Women  always  say  'don't,'  "  he  said.  "I  sup- 
pose they  enjoy  a  sort  of  preliminary  tete-a-tete 
with  conscience  before  committing  an  indiscre- 
tion." 

"But  I  mean  it,  Dennis." 
"All  women  mean  it,  my  dear  Vera." 
Her  color  deepened,  and  she  tried  to  release 
her  hands  from  his,  but  his  grip  tightened  until  it 
hurt.     She  made  no  further  attempt,  and  he 
moved  still  closer  to  her. 

157 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Please  let  me  go,"  she  said,  keeping  her  eyes 
steadily  from  hun. 

"You  are  inartistic." 

"But  I  ask  you — and  you  are  a  gentleman.'* 
Something  of  the  dislike  that  he  had  always 
known  she  felt  for  him  crept  into  her  voice  and 
left  a  nice  tinge  of  irony. 

"I  have  a  valet  and  three  addresses,"  he  said, 
"and  only  pay  my  tailor  once  a  year.  ...  In 
most  countries  that  gives  one  the  standing  of  a 
gentleman." 

She  bit  her  lip  and  glanced  quickly  at  him. 
His  pulses,  already  stirred  by  wine  and  the 
intrigue  of  a  midnight  amour,  leaped  into  a  fever 
at  the  glimpse  of  burning  eyes  and  lips  that 
slightly  trembled.  He  placed  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder  and  drew  her  face  towards  his. 

"Why,"  she  said  hesitatingly — "why  do  you 
want  to  kiss  me?" 

Montague  smiled.  "The  eternal  question. 
Vera.  It  has  trapped  more  men  into  proposals 
than  all  the  wiles  of  a  generation  of  fond 
mothers." 

"But  you  don't  love  me,"  she  said,  her  hands 
158 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

pressed  against  the  lapels  of  his  jacket  in  self- 
defense. 

"On  such  a  night  as  this,"  he  said,  "who  could 
help  but  love  j'ou?" 

"Dennis,  please  let  me  go — I  mean  it — I  shall 
call  for  help." 

His  brow  contracted  with  a  sudden  frown. 
"You  come  here,"  he  said,  "at  midnight — into  a 
deserted  conservatory  .  .  .  with  me.  Then,  be- 
cause I  do  what  you  knew  from  the  start  I  would 
do,  you  suddenly  decide  to  play  'Little  Miss 
Prude  from  the  Convent.'  " 

"I — I  should  not  have  come.  I  did  not  want 
to,  Dennis." 

His  lips  curved  into  a  smile.  "Then  why  did 
you?" 

Pier  eyes  pleaded  with  him  not  to  prolong  the 
scene,  but  he  was  mad  with  the  joy  of  seeing  this 
sensitive  woman,  who  had  so  long  kept  him  at  a 
distance,  caught  in  the  meshes  of  his  fascination, 
and  he  held  her  in  his  arms,  confident  of  his 
power  to  sway  her  at  his  will. 

"I  fought  against  it,  Dennis,"  she  said  quickly. 
"But — I  had  to  come.    Oh,  why  force  me  to  say 

159 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

such  a  thing.  Can  you  not  see  how  unfair  you 
are?" 

She  struggled  to  her  feet,  but  he  stood  before 
her,  barring  the  way  to  the  door. 

His  breath  came  faster.  This  was  a  charming 
surrender !  It  had  gracefulness,  novelty,  charm. 
.  .  .  Only,  something  in  her  eyes  warned  him  to 
come  no  closer. 

"I  have  admitted,  Dennis  Montague,"  she  said 
breathlessly,  "that  I  came  here  because  you  fas- 
cinated me.  It's  true;  you  have  always  fascin- 
ated me.  But  I  tell  you  that  down  in  my  heart 
I  loathe  you,  detest  you,  for  the  coward  that  you 
are."  Montague  drew  back  as  though  fired  upon 
by  a  masked  battery.  "In  all  the  years  I  have 
known  you,"  she  went  on  furiously,  as  though 
fearing  that  her  courage  would  leave  her  before 
the  finish,  "you  have  done  nothing  that  was  not 
selfish,  mean,  and  cowardly — above  everything 
else,   cowardly.      Look   at  the   girls   you   have 

known "    Montague  interrupted  her  with  an 

impatient  gesture,  but  she  went  on :  "^lore  than  a 
dozen  I  could  name  have  given  you  the  depth 
and  the  sweetness  of  their  first  love,  inspired  by 
you,  called  forth  by  you.    Do  you  realize  what 

160 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

a  woman's  heart  is  and  what  she  gives  with  it? 
And  you — you  are  too  cowardly  to  face  mar- 
riage, too  cowardly  to  love  with  your  own  heart 
— too  selfish  to  leave  women's  hearts  alone." 

Montague  took  a  cigarette-case  from  his 
pocket.     "May  I  smoke?"  he  said  coolly. 

"You  are  a  coward  about  your  profession  as 
well,"  she  hurried  on,  ignoring  his  interruption. 
"Your  mother,  I  know,  had  great  dreams  for 
you.  She  planned,  worked,  sacrificed  for  you. 
Yet  you  are  too  much  of  a  coward  seriously  to 
face  competition  with  what  you  choose  to  call 
'the  little  legal  minds  of  the  city.'  " 

"And  thirdly?"  he  said,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"Yes,  thirdly,"  she  said  desperately,  although 
his  easy  nonchalance  was  fast  undermining  her 
courage,  "you  are  not  in  the  army.  Yet  no  one 
could  say  that  Dennis  Montague  is  not  fit.  I 
can  only  presume,  like  every  one  else,  that  you 
are  afraid." 

"And  lastly?"  He  was  still  calm,  although 
keener  eyes  than  hers  would  have  noticed  a  dark, 
ominous  flush  under  his  eyes. 

"And,  lastly,"  she  said,  unconsciously  repeat- 
ing his  formula,  "you  scoff  at  everything  that  is 

161 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

good  and  pure,  sneering  at  religion,  and  drawing 
yourself  aside  from  your  fellow-creatures  as 
though  they  were  loathsome.  Yet  I  say  to  you, 
Dennis,  that  there  is  not  a  man  in  the  slums 
whose  soul  isn't  far,  far  richer  than  yours.  It  is 
only  a  coward,  afraid  to  face  the  real  things,  who 
scoffs  at  life." 

Weak  from  the  effort  she  had  made,  her  voice 
subsided  into  silence  and  a  cold  sweat  broke  out 
on  her  brow  and  the  palms  of  her  hands. 

"Will  you  smoke,  Vera?" 

"No,  thanks,"  she  answered  faintly. 

"Da.    It  would  soothe  you." 

"No,  I  thank  you."  She  repressed  a  sudden 
desire  to  fly  from  the  conservatory.  She  had 
become  suddenly  afraid  of  the  cool,  smiling 
figure  beside  her. 

"As  far  as  girls  are  concerned,"  he  said 
quietly,  replacing  the  cigarette-case  in  his  pocket, 
"just  as  long  as  they  angle  for  us  with  every 
artifice  of  dress  and  rouge  and  coquetry,  so  long 
will  they  catch  us  and  the  consequences.  As  for 
the  law,  which  my  mother  planned  for  me,  I  re- 
gret that  my  father  left  me  the  instincts  of  a 

162 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

gentleman,  not  of  an  attorney.  I  am  not  boring 
you?" 

She  made  no  reply. 

"As  for  the  army,  I  don't  happen  to  be  inter- 
ested in  the  war.  I  disapprove  of  the  crudeness 
of  our  Canadian  civilization.  I  disapprove  of 
England's  lack  of  the  artistic.  I  disapprove  of 
German  militarism,  Scotch  bagpipes,  Swiss 
cheese,  Chinese  laundries,  and  American  politics. 
Why  should  I  fight  for  one  when  I  disapprove  of 
them  all?  As  for  my  fellow-man,  I  shun  the 
ordinary  man  of  the  streets  because  he  does  not 
think,  read,  or  bathe  often  enough.  I  am  not 
hostile  to  him ;  I  merely  ignore  him.  I  am  not  a 
coward  at  all,  my  dear  Vera;  I  am  merely  an 
artist  among  artisans." 

He  bowed  gracefully.  "Let  us  return  to  the 
dancing,"  he  said. 

With  a  frightened,  inquiring  glance,  she  took 
his  arm,  and  without  a  word  thej^  left  the  con- 
servatory. At  the  door  of  the  ballroom  they 
paused,  and  she  laid  a  timid  hand  on  his  arm. 
It  will  ever  be  a  mystery  to  men  how  women  can 
love  and  despise  the  same  object. 

"Dennis,"  she  said,  "will  you  try  to  forget 
163 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

what  I  have  said?"  Her  courage  had  gone,  fled 
before  his  coolness  and  the  fascination  he  held 
for  her,  though  she  had  striven  with  all  her 
womanhood  to  free  herself  from  it. 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could,"  he  said  grimly. 


The  morning  sunshine  invaded  the  rooms  of 
Dennis  JMontague  with  pervading  cheeriness.  It 
was  nearing  the  end  of  April,  and  a  hundred 
birds  sang  of  the  winter  wonders  of  arid  Africa, 
and  of  the  witcheries  of  the  Nile,  where  Pygmies 
are  at  v/ar  with  the  butterflies,  and  the  great  god 
Memnon  raises  his  mighty  shout  to  greet  the 
dawn  of  day. 

Oblivious  to  the  sunshine  and  everything  but 
his  thoughts,  Montague  lay  in  bed,  and  sought  to 
wrestle  with  the  truth  he  had  heard  the  night 
before.  It  was  impossible  to  dismiss  the  thing 
from  his  mind.  His  brain  throbbed  with  resent- 
ment, questioning,  searching  her  words — striving 
to  convince  himself  that  her  charge  of  cowardice 
was  the  vituperation  of  an  unrequited  love.  But 
it  was  useless.     He  could  explain  her  actions, 

164 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

dissect  her  motives,  applaud  his  own  pose,  but 
he  could  not  eliminate  the  feeling  of  personal 
nausea  which  clung  to  him,  as  though  he  had 
suddenly  sickened  of  his  whole  nature. 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  the  thread  of 
his  thoughts,  and  his  valet  entered  with  a  tray 
of  breakfast-things. 

"Good  morning,  sir."  Sylvester  carefully  re- 
arranged the  tray  on  a  little  table  beside  the  bed. 
"It's  a  beautiful  morning,  sir.  There's  great 
news  too." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Canadians  'ave  saved  Calais,  sir — leastways 
they've  stopped  them  for  the  time." 

"They're  in  action,  eh?" 

"  'Orrible,  too,  sir ;  the  paper  says  the  Ger- 
mans used  poison  gas." 

"Good  God!" 

"Yes,  sir — the  French  Colonials  gave  way, 
yelhng  that  'ell  was  let  loose,  and  the  Canadians 
went  up  and  'eld  the  line." 

JSIontague  put  down  the  cup  of  coffee  un- 
tasted.    "What  does  it  say — about  casualties?" 

"Why,  sir  it  looks  as  if  some  battalions  was 

pretty  well  wiped  out.  'Ere's  the  paper,  sir '" 

165 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"No — no.  I  don't  want  to  see  it.  Tell  me — 
it  says  .  .  .  the  Canadians  held  against  ,  .  . 
gas?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Are  our  Toronto  chaps  in  it?" 

"Very  'eavy,  sir.  It  seems  as  if  the  'Ighland 
Brigade  got  it  the  worst." 

Montague  sank  back  on  the  pillow,  his  face 
grim  and  pallid. 

"Come  along,  sir;  'ere's  your  breakfast." 

His  master  gazed  at  the  ceiling.  "Sylvester," 
he  said  listlessly,  "for  a  long  time  you  have  min- 
istered to  my  body.  What  can  you  do  for  a  soul 
that  is  starving?" 

The  valet  beamed  reassuringly.  A  large  and 
varied  experience  as  a  servant  to  young  gentle- 
men had  inured  him  to  morning-after  repent- 
ances. 

"That's  all  right,  sir,"  he  said,  rubbing  his 
hands  geniilly.  "A  bromo-seltzer  will  fix  you 
up.  'Ello,  sir!"  The  sound  of  a  military  band 
drew  him  to  the  window.  "It's  one  of  the  new 
battalions — blooming  near  a  thousand  of  them. 
Seems  like  'ome,  it  does,  when  the  Guards  used 
to  do  London  in  all  their  swankin'  regimentals." 

166 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

A  battalion  swung  past  in  steady  rhythmical 
tread  to  the  stirring  strains  of  the  Welsh  hymn 
of  freedom,  "Men  of  Harlech" — and  there  was  a 
youthful  vigorousness  about  the  men,  a  sugges- 
tion of  unconquerable  manhood.  .  .  .  And  on 
every  man's  face  there  was  written  pride  and  de- 
termination. For  their  comrades  had  been  tried 
at  Ypres.  .  .  .  They  had  held  the  line.  .  .  .  And, 
by  the  living  God,  the  Hun  would  pay  for  that 
foul  gas  given  to  the  wind  to  carry  against  de- 
fenseless men. 

The  last  ranks  of  the  battalion  passed,  and  the 
music  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  The 
birds  resumed  their  chorus,  and  WiUiam  Sylves- 
ter his  imperturbable  mask  of  deference.  Lan- 
guidly Montague  rose  from  his  bed  and  lit  a 
cigarette. 

"Our  civilization,"  he  said  quietly,  "need  not 
pride  itself  on  raising  those  men.  Men  have  al- 
ways been  brave  since  the  beginning  of  time. 
The  terrible  failure  of  our  age  is  that  it  has  pro- 
duced men  like  me — a  coward." 

Mr.  Sylvester  scratched  his  head.  "Lord  bless 
me,  sir!"  he  ventured,   "you're  not  a  coward. 

167 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Why,  look  at  the  jump  you  took  at  last  year's 
horse  show." 

Montague  turned  on  him  with  a  vehemence 
that  the  valet  had  never  before  seen  in  his  mas- 
ter. "I  tell  you  I  am  a  coward,"  he  said  fiercely. 
"Don't  I  know  that  my  place  is  with  these  men? 
In  that  battalion  that  passed  there  are  married 
men  with  families,  there  are  only  sons  of  widows, 
there  are  brothers,  sweethearts.  Who  is  there  to 
care  if  I  go?  My  death  would  not  cause  a  single 
tear;  and  yet  I  stay — not  that  I  am  afraid  of 
bullets  or  death,  but  because  I  know  that  I 
should  have  to  sleep  beside  men  who  are  filthy, 
unclean,  and  that  I  should  grow  filthy  too.  I 
abhor  it.  I  detest  it.  Yet  I  stand  aside  and  let 
others  go." 

"You — you  are  a  gentleman,  sir." 

"A  gentleman!"  Montague  laughed  rasp- 
ingly.  "INIy  own  definition  last  night  was  'a 
man  with  a  valet  and  three  addresses.'  What  a 
fool  I  was!  No,  I  am  not  a  gentleman.  I  have 
never  been  one.  The  greatest  gentleman  of  all 
time  was  a  carpenter.  That  is  the  truth  I  have 
to  burn  into  my  soul." 

He  sank  into  a  chair,  and  shadows  of  fatigue 
168 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

marred  his  face.  "Last  night,  Sylvester,"  he 
said  slowlj^  "I  lay  awake  for  hours,  and  some- 
times in  the  awful  darkness  that  surrounds  one 
when  sleep  refuses  to  come,  things  seem  clearer 
and  more  cruel  than  in  daylight.  Last  night  I 
saw  myself  for  the  first  time.  ...  I  do  not  say 
I  shall  change.  ...  It  is  too  late,  I  think.  .  .  ." 

An  hour  later  he  left  his  flat,  fully  dressed, 
and  strolled  into  the  sun-lit  streets.  A 
newsboy  dashed  past,  screaming  in  strident 
tones,  "All  night  fighting — Canadian  Line  still 
holding;"  and  then,  apparently  feeling  the  an- 
nouncement needed  identification,  he  shrieked, 
"All  about  that  great  big  European  War." 

Montague  heard  his  name  spoken.  It  was  the 
ex -bank  clerk,  the  young  subaltern  with  the  un- 
inspired face. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  rather  shyly. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Marching  orders,"  said  the  other.  "We  leave 
here  to-morrow.  By  jove,  we've  got  something 
to  fight  for  now!" 

Montague  murmured  his  best  wishes  and 
moved  on,  but  the  words  that  kept  nmning 
through  his  brain  were  those  of  the  boy's  man- 

169 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

ager  who  had  written  "A  decent  enough  fellow, 
but  lacking  in  initiative." 


VI 


His  walk,  unplanned  as  it  was,  drew  him 
towards  the  center  of  the  city.  He  mechanically 
avoided  the  streets  that  were  crowded,  and,  like 
a  bit  of  flotsam  on  the  ocean's  surface,  was 
guided  and  buffeted  until,  turning  down  a  quiet 
side-street,  he  emerged  upon  the  corner  of  a 
huge  stone  building.  He  glanced  up,  to  realize 
that  it  was  the  Armories  and  was  about  to  change 
his  course  \jhen  a  recruiting  sergeant,  noticing 
his  hesitation,  stepped  up  to  him. 

"Beg  pardon,"  he  said,  "but  was  you  lookin' 
to  sign  up?" 

"Sign  up?"  Montague  repeated  the  words 
automatically. 

"Sure — sign  up  with  the  Brindle's  Battalion." 

"The  Brindle's  Battalion?" 

"Come  off  that  parrot  stuff,"  growled  Ser- 
geant Saunders. 

Montague  shook  himself  together.  "I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  said  stiffly. 

170 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

The  sergeant  shuffled  uneasily.  "Say,  don't 
be  so  dashed  poHte,"  he  said,  not  ill-naturedly. 
"I'm  here  to  get  recruits.  We're  a  tough  bunch; 
we're  a  rough  bunch;  but  we're  men.  Our  boys 
ain't  strong  on  polish  or  eddication,  and  they're 
no  boozeless,  non-smoking  crowd;  but  they're 
straight,  and  they're  game,  and  they're  men." 

"They're  men,"  repeated  Montague,  dazed  by 
a  dizziness  that  seemed  to  wrap  himself  and  the 
sergeant  in  an  enveloping  mist. 

"That's  what  I  said,"  reiterated  Sergeant 
Saunders,  mentally  noting  that  he  would  make 
^Montague  drop  his  sing-song  if  he  ever  got  the 
opportunity.     "What  do  you  say,  old  scout?" 

^lontague  glanced  up.  "Will  you  take  me?" 
he  said. 

"Will  we  take  you?"  A  broad,  brown  hand 
grasped  Montague's  arm,  and  he  found  himself 
being  led  into  a  room  in  the  Armories,  where  he 
discovered  that  his  full  name  was  Dennis  OHver 
Montague,  that  he  was  twenty-eight  years  of  age, 
that  he  was  an  Anglican,  and  that  his  Uncle 
Charles  was  his  next  of  kin.  He  further  found 
that  he  was  the  property  of  His  Majesty  King 
George  the  Fifth  for  the  duration  of  the  war 

171 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

and  six  months  after.  "So  'elp  me;  and  shove 
'im  in  to  the  medico. — Glad  you  signed  up,  my 
lad;  you'll  never  regret  it.  We've  got  a  man's 
job  for  you,  and — close  that  bleeding  door, 
Nokes.— All  Tight.— Nea^tr 

With  whirlwind  rapidity  Dennis  stripped  for 
the  doctor,  who  pronounced  him  an  excellent 
example  of  cannon-fodder;  and,  still  dazed,  he 
put  on  his  clothes  and  emerged  into  the  open  air, 
a  red  band  about  his  arm  proclaiming  to  the 
world  that  he  was  now  Private  D.  O.  Montague, 
of  the  Brindle's  Battalion,  C.E.F.  He  gasped, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  then  went  home. 

VII 

Sergeant  Skimps  surveyed  the  squad  of  re- 
cruits with  the  eye  of  a  man  who  had  seen  re- 
cruits for  twenty  years  and  was  impervious  to 
any  emotion  on  the  subject. 

"You're  soldiers  now,"  he  began,  his  dialect 
strongly  reminiscent  of  Bow  Bells;  "you're  in 
the  service  now,  so,  kiss  me,  'Arry,  get  your  'air 
cut,  all  of  yer.  We  don't  go  in  for  Paderooskies 
in  the  harmy.    Then  'old  yer  'eads  hup  and  put 

172 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

yer  chests  hout  has  though  you  was  somebody. 
You  ain't,  but  don't  go  teUin'  no  one."  (A  gentle 
murmur  greeted  this  sally.)  "Halways  respeck 
yer  hofficers  and  non-commissioned  hofficers,  and 
don't  go  slapping  the  colonel  on  the  back  and 
hoffering  'im  a  cigar.  You're  in  the  harmy— 
that  bloke  at  the  bend,  spit  out  that  there  to- 
bacco— g'wan! — a  filthy  'abit  on  parade,  and 
it'll  get  C.B.  for  yer.  Where  do  you  'ail  from, 
hany'ow  ? — a  nice  specimen,  I  don't  think — chew- 
ing when  a  sawgeant's  talking  to  yer.  Now, 
then,  fall  in — hanother  'arf -hour's  drill." 
.  For  five  hours  that  day  alternately  Sergeant 
Skimps  talked,  and  his  tired  squad  turned, 
marched,  and  wheeled  about  the  gravel  parade- 
ground.  Weary  to  the  point  of  exhaustion,  al- 
ready deaf  to  the  interminable  harangue  of  Ser- 
geant Skimps,  the  hour  of  four-thirty  found 
Montague  with  his  first  day  in  the  army  finished. 
He  had  only  one  desire — to  seek  his  apartment, 
to  feel  the  cool  shower  upon  his  bod5%  and  to 
lounge  in  languid  repose  in  his  dressing-gown, 
soothed  by  the  inevitable  cigarette.  He  broke 
away  from  the  group,  but  was  hailed  by  a  ruddy- 

173 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

faced  Little  Englander,  who  had  made  various 
overtures  to  him  during  the  day. 

"Going  up?"  said  the  other,  his  accent  pro- 
claiming his  British  birth,  tempered  by  ten  years 
of  Canadian  citizenship. 

"Yes,"  said  Montague;  "but  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"Right-o!  I'm  with  you."  He  swung  along 
beside  Montague.  "This  is  the  life,"  he  said 
cheerily. 

"What?"  asked  Montague. 

"Soldiering — a  dollar  ten  a  day,  short  hours, 
and  no  work — what  ho!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  like  it?"  asked 
Montague,  wishing  his  companion  reeked  a  little 
less  of  his  recent  exertions. 

"Why  not  like  it?"  said  Private  Waller. 
"We're  in  it,  ain't  we?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  the  other  shortly. 

Private  Waller  rubbed  his  hands  together. 
"He's  a  sergeant,  ain't  he?" 

"Do  you  mean  that  strutting  bounder  who 
drilled  us  to-day?" 

"Lordeel  don't  let  him  hear  you  say  that." 
The  little  man  went  pale  at  the  thought.    "Say, 

174 


THE  MAX  WHO  SCOFFED 

if  you  don't  like  him,  just  wait  until  you  see 
Sergeant-Major  'Awkins." 

A  cockney  of  even  ten  years'  Canadian 
citizenship  loses  his  h's  when  excited.  Montague 
began  to  wince  under  it,  and  wished  a  dozen 
times  that  his  companion  would  hold  his  tongue 
and  give  him  a  chance  to  think,  to  separate  the 
varied  experiences  of  the  day,  and  to  edit  his 
thoughts.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  ac- 
knowledged the  greeting  of  i\Irs.  jNIerryweather 
from  a  huge  motor-car.    Waller's  eyes  bulged. 

"I  say,  you  know  some  swells,  don't  you? 
What  was  you — a  chauffeur?" 

Montague  considered.  "No;  I  was  a  sort  of 
social  buffoon." 

Waller  considered.  "Something  in  the  plumb- 
ing line?"  he  ventured. 

"Not  exactly,"  answered  Montague,  and  mut- 
tered, "Duration  of  the  war — and  six  months 
after — with  plebs  like  this !" 

"I'm  a  carpenter  by  trade,"  vouchsafed  Pri- 
vate Waller,  and  then  emitted  a  shout  of  delight. 
"I  say,"  he  cried;  "blime,  if  it  ain't  the  missus!" 

In  a  few  moments  they  reached  a  little  Eng- 
lishwoman, not  much  more  than  a  girl,  who  was 

175 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

guiding   a  baby-carriage   containing   a   chubby 

little  youngster  of  some  two  years  of  age. 
"  'Ello,  Bill!"  she  said.     "  'Ow's  the  army?" 
"Great,"  said  her  husband;  "but  meet  my  pal, 

Private    Montague. — Private   Montague,    meet 

my  old  woman." 

"Glad  to  know  any  friend  of  Bill's,"  said  Mrs. 

Waller  warmly. 

Montague    bowed.      **Thank    you,"    he    said 

gravely.    "You  are  giving  up  a  lot  in  letting  your 

husband  go  to  the  war." 

"You  said  I  had  to,  Emily." 

The  girl  pouted.    "  'E  would  go." 

"But  you  wanted  to  go.  Bill." 

"Of  course;  but  I  said " 

"I  know — about  the  biby;  but " 

"There   you   go    again.     Didn't   you   say    I 

must?" 

"Oh,  well,  Mr.  Montague" — the  little  woman 

looked   frankly   into  his   gray-blue,  unreadable 

eyes — "the  biby's  a  boy,  and  when  he  grows  up  I 

cawn't  say  to  'im,  '  'Arry,  your  father  was  a 

slacker!'    Now,  can  I,  Mr.  Montague?" 

He  made  no  answer,  but  a  thoughtful  look 

crept  into  the  hard,  unsmiling  eyes. 

176 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

"Come  and  have  a  bit  of  supper,  pard?"  Pri- 
vate Waller  rubbed  his  hands  together  at  the 
prospect. 

"No — no,  thanks,"  said  Montague  hastily.  He 
was  longing  for  privacy  and  the  solace  that 
comes  with  solitude.  "Some  other  night,  per- 
haps, when  we  have  our  uniforms." 

"Good  enough!"  cried  the  cheery  little  man. 
"Then  we'll  do  Queen  Street  together  and  show 
the  girls — what  ho — oh  noT" 

JMontague  raised  his  hat.  "Good  evening,"  he 
said. 

"So  long,"  said  Private  Waller.  "See  you  in 
the  morning." 

When  they  were  alone  the  husband  turned  to 
his  young  wife  with  an  air  of  pride.  "What  do 
you  think  of  my  pal?"  he  asked,  with  an  air  of 
proprietorship. 

"G'wan,"  said  Emily  disdainfully;  " 'e  ain't 
your  pal." 

"He  is,  too." 

"'E  ain't!"  She  tossed  her  head.  "Don't  I 
know  one  when  I  sees  one ;  me,  the  daughter  of  a 
footman  in  Lady  Swankboume's?  'E  your  pal! 
'E  blooming  well  ain't  — 'e's  a  gentleman!" 

177 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Far  up  the  street  Montague  was  striding  to- 
wards his  home,  wondering  if  any  one  had  seen 
him  with  the  Wallers,  or  had  heard  the  garrul- 
ous little  cockney  call  him  pard.  Good  heavens! 
what  would  his  friends  say;  or,  for  that  matter, 
how  could  he  face  Sylvester  if  he  had  been  seen 
by  that  polite  scion  of  servitude?  "But  I'll  see 
it  through,"  he  muttered  savagely,  biting  his  lip, 
"if  only  to  prove  that  the  under-dog,  like  all 
other  dogs,  is  a  thing  without  a  soul!" 

VIII 

It  was  early  in  November  about  eighteen 
months  later  that  Vera  Dalton,  returning  from 
her  self-imposed  task  at  a  Military  Convalescent 
Home,  found  a  letter  awaiting  her  which  bore 
the  heading  that  will  cast  its  unique  spell  over 
us  and  our  children  for  generations  to  come — - 
"Somewhere  in  France." 

Sorrow  had  come  into  her  home,  as  it  had  into 
so  many  hundreds  of  others,  but  it  had  mellowed, 
not  marred  her  womanliness. 

Into  the  vortex  of  the  nations  she  had  seen  the 
young  men  of  Canada  flinging  themselves  with 

178 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

laughing  voices  and  sturdy  courage.  With  the 
other  women  of  the  city  she  had  watched  the  end- 
less stream  of  youth  as  though,  across  the  seas, 
some  Hamehn  Piper  were  playing  an  irresistible, 
compelling  melod3\  .  .  .  And  still  the  cry  was 
for  more — more  sons,  more  brothers,  more 
fathers!  Month  after  month  the  ceaseless 
crusade  went  on  —  month  after  month  new 
battalions  sprang  into  being,  trained  a  short  time, 
and  then  made  for  the  sea.  .  .  .  Always  the  sea, 
waiting  with  its  foaming  restlessness  to  carry  its 
human  cargo  to  the  slaughter. 

The  sea  .  .  .  the  sea.  .  .  . 

It  became  the  symbol  of  sacrifice  to  her. 
Across  its  turbulent  expanse,  youth  was  forfeit- 
ing its  life  for  the  blindness  of  the  past.  The 
hungry  fire  of  war  was  being  fed  with  human 
hearts.  ...  But  such  is  the  nature  of  fire  that 
what  lives  through  it  is  imperishable. 

A  year  ago  Montague  had  gone  with  his 
battalion — without  even  a  good-bye.  She  had 
never  heard  of  him,  but  the  ordeal  of  the  flames 
had  left  him  stripped  of  his  artificiality  as  a  tree 
stricken  by  a  sudden  frost  is  robbed  in  a  moment 
of  its  foliage.    It  is  not  only  the  best  in  men  that 

179 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

lives  through  war — vile  passions  vie  with  cour- 
age and  great  sacrifice.  .  .  .  But  artijficial  things 
succumb  and  crumple  with  the  scorching  heat, 
and  are  blown  into  space  by  the  breath  of  pas- 
sions, base  or  noble — it  matters  not — ^they  are 
real. 

With  trembling  hands  she  opened  the  letter. 

"Somewhere  in  France. 

"My  dear  Girl, — In  a  couple  of  hours  we  are 
going  over  the  parapet  to  reach  the  German  lines 
or  gain  oblivion — or  worse.  All  around  me  the 
men  I  have  worked  with,  slept  with,  fought  with, 
are  writing  to,  or  thinking  of,  some  loved  one  at 
home.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  love  you  once 
felt  for  me  has  died  or  not,  but  it  was  once  strong 
enough  to  hurt  me  as  no  one  had  ever  done  before 
• — to  tear  my  soul  out  to  where  I  could  see  its 
rottenness  with  my  own  eyes.  I  could  not  live 
with  myself  after  that,  and  as  you  must  have 
heard,  for  I  believe  it  was  a  drawing-room  jest 
for  some  time,  I  joined  a  battalion  composed  al- 
most entirely  of  men  from  the  factories,  the 
workshops,  and  the  streets. 

"It  was  partly  a  spirit  of  bravado  made  me  do 
180 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

it,  and  partly  a  desire  to  wrestle  with  truth.  I 
cannot  say  how  hard  it  was  at  first  to  endure 
their  company,  their  incessant,  meaningless  pro- 
fanity. I  hated  every  one  of  them.  To  salute  an 
officer  in  the  street  caused  me  such  humiliation 
that  I  thought  of  desertion  a  dozen  times.  From 
my  contempt  of  my  fellow-soldiers  to  an  under- 
standing of  their  nobility  has  been  a  hard,  cruel 
road  to  travel ;  but  I  have  traveled  it,  and  I  think 
that  somewhere  on  the  road  there  is  a  cross 
whereon  my  pride  was  crucified.  Vera,  my 
prayer  is  no  longer  that  of  the  Pharisee,  but  of 
the  Publican.  I  was  offered  a  commission ;  I  was 
urged  to  join  the  signalers  or  the  machine-gun 
section,  because  there  I  should  find  men  more 
after  my  own  stamp ;  but  I  refused — the  memory 
of  your  words  made  me  stick  with  the  men  I 
started  with. 

"I  have  found  them  crude,  uneducated,  un- 
ambitious, but  true  as  steel,  and  asking  no  bet- 
ter reward  for  their  heroism  than  that  their 
'missus  and  kids'  will  be  looked  after  at  home. 
I  tell  you.  Vera,  that  when  the  war  is  over  we 
shall  have  to  realize  that  it  is  not  only  the  con- 
sumptive and  the  imbecile  that  deserve  care  and 

181 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

thought.  There  is  a  grandeur,  a  manhood,  in 
the  ordinary,  unlovely,  unkempt  man  of  the 
streets  that  our  civilization  has  failed  to  bring 
out,  but  war  has  done  it.  So  much  has  war  given 
to  us ;  so  much  has  peace  failed  to  give. 

"Life  has  become  a  riddle  to  me,  still  fasci- 
nating, but  fascinatingly  puzzling.  Perhaps  I 
shall  find  the  answer  in  No  Man's  Land. 

"Good-bye,  dear  girl.  Don't  think  from  the 
tone  of  my  letter  that  I  have  forgotten  how  to 
smile  (this  is  where  real  humor  is  found,  for 
humor  was  always  a  twin  to  tragedy).  But  I 
am  forgetting  how  to  scoff.  I  suppose,  though, 
that  I  haven't  changed  beyond  recognition,  for 
I  believe  behind  my  back  I  am  called  'The 
Duke.' 

"Like  my  comrades,  I  have  written  to  a  loved 
one  at  home. 

"I  trust,  Vera,  that  it  is  au  revoir. 

Dennis. 

"D.  O.  Montague,  Pte.  No.  67,895, 
Brindle's  Bfittalion,   C.E.F." 


182 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 


IX 


"Four  minutes!"  A  subaltern,  who  had 
reached  the  Brindle's  Battahon  only  the  night 
before,  stood  with  his  back  to  the  parapet,  his 
wrist  turned  so  that  he  could  study  the  face  of 
his  watch.  Half-a-dozen  rifles  spat  at  the  German 
trench  opposite.  The  attack  was  to  be  a  sur- 
prise, without  preliminary  artillery  fire. 

"Three  minutes!"  There  was  a  shght  catch  in 
the  lieutenant's  voice  as  he  watched  the  ominous 
course  of  the  hand  of  his  watch  ticking  off  the 
seconds.  Dennis  Montague  turned  to  look  at 
him,  wondering  where  he  had  seen  him  before, 
and  idly  conjecturing  how  he  had  earned  that 
little  splash  of  color  on  his  breast. 

A  signaler  looked  up  from  his  phone.  "O.C. 
wants  to  know  if  everything  is  ready,  sir." 

"Two  minutes!  Has  every  man  his  gas-hel- 
met, water-bottle,  iron  ration?  Right.  Tell  the 
O.C.  everything's  O.K." 

There  was  a  coarse  jest  from  a  grizzled  cor- 
poral; a  few  laughed  nervously.  A  little  chap, 
who  had  lied  about  his  age,  caught  his  breath  in 

183 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

a  sob  he  could  not  stifle.  The  young  officer,  who 
was  beside  him,  reached  out  his  hand  and  patted 
the  lad's  shoulder. 

"One  minute!"  Every  man  crouched  for  the 
spring — there  was  a  "mumbled  prayer — a  curse 
— a  laugh.  Montague  took  a  deep,  quivering 
breath,  and  his  trembling  hand  felt  for  the  bayo- 
net-stud to  see  that  it  was  firm. 

"Come  on,  Brindles!  Give  'em  hell!"  The 
subaltern  leaped  to  the  parapet,  stood  silhouetted 
a  moment  against  the  dull,  cloudy  sky,  and, 
without  a  word,  fell  back  into  the  trench — a 
corpse.  And  in  that  moment  Montague  remem- 
bered him.  He  was  the  "decent  enough  fellow" 
— "lacking  in  initiative." 

Cursing,  shouting,  laughing,  the  men  scram- 
bled over  the  breastwork,  and  were  met  by  a  tor- 
rent of  machine-gun  fire  that  swept  through 
their  ranks  with  pitiless  accuracy. 

"Something's  wrong!"  yelled  Major  Watson 
from  the  center.  "They  knew  we  were  coming;" 
and  he  whirled  around  twice  and  dropped  in  his 
tracks.  Montague  leaped  forward  with  a  hoarse, 
inarticulate  shout,  when  he  felt  a  blow  on  his  arm 
as  though  it  had  been  struck  by  a  red-hot  iron. 

184 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

He  fell,  but  rose  immediately,  madly  excited, 
muttering  words  that  meant  nothing.  The 
charge  had  stopped  halfway,  and  all  about  him 
his  comrades  stood  irresolute,  desperate,  unable 
to  advance,  determined  not  to  retreat. 

"Come  on,"  shrieked  the  adjutant,  "for  God's 
sake!"  And  he  fell,  choking,  vomiting  blood, 
with  a  bullet  in  his  throat. 

Without  an  officer  left,  the  men  looked  wildly 
about,  the  bullets  spitting  around  them  and  tak- 
ing their  steady,  merciless  toll.  With  a  great 
feeling  of  ecstasy,  Montague  staggered  to  the 
front. 

"Steady,  the  Brindles!"  he  yelled  hoarsely. 
"Shake  out  the  line  to  the  left — cold  steel, 
Brindles!    Come  on!" 

"Follow  the  Duke!"  roared  a  dozen  voices; 
and  they  hurled  themselves  forward. 

They  hacked  their  way  into  the  trench,  but 
their  triumph  was  short-lived.  Things  had  gone 
badly  on  the  left,  and  the  signal  to  retire  flashed 
along  the  line.  With  horrible  blaspheming,  the 
Brindles  gave  up  their  trench  and  started  back 
for  their  own  line.  When  he  was  half-way  across 
a  bullet  struck  Montague  in  the  shoulder,  then 

185 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

another  in  the  thigh,  and  he  sank  to  the  ground 
unconscious. 

When  he  awoke  the  moonhght  was  streaming 
over  the  stricken  field.  He  bit  his  lip  to  keep 
from  crying  out  at  the  sudden  spasm  of  pain  in 
his  shoulder,  and  then  something  he  saw  almost 
stopped  the  beating  of  his  heart.  A  figure  was 
slowly  crawling  towards  him,  inch  by  inch,  but 
steadily,  ominously  coming  nearer  with  every 
moment.  His  left  arm  was  helpless,  and  he  tried 
to  reach  for  his  bayonet  by  turning  over. 

"Pard,  are  you  dead?" 

Never  did  sounds  of  sweetest  music  fall  more 
gratefully  on  human  ears  than  the  words  uttered 
by  Private  Waller  on  the  night  of  October  16, 
1916,  on  No  Man's  Land,  Somewhere  in  France. 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Montague,  his  voice  weak 
and  quavering.    "Waller — old — boy." 

"Damn!"  muttered  Private  Waller.  The  Ger- 
mans, with  customary  fiendishness,  were  search- 
ing the  ground  with  rifle-fire  to  prevent  any  at- 
tempt at  rescue.    "Are  you  much  hurt,  pard?" 

"I'm  used  up  pretty  bad,"  Montague  an- 
swered weakly,  and  in  incorrect  English.  Things 
change  in  No  Man's  Land. 

186 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

"I'm  the  third  as  has  come  after  you,"  whis- 
pered Waller;  "Sykes  and  Thompson  got  theirs." 

"Coming — for  me?"  Montague's  voice  trailed 
off  into  a  querulous  sob. 

"Sure — those  of  us  as  got  back  shook  hands 
on  it  that  we'd  get  the  Duke  back  dead  or  alive." 

Montague  tried  to  speak,  but  only  two  scald- 
ing tears  slowly  trickled  down  his  cheeks.  He 
was  weak  from  loss  of  blood,  and  he  was  learn- 
ing a  bitter  lesson  in  the  moonhght  on  the 
stricken  field. 

"I'll  hoist  you  up  as  easy  as  I  can,"  whispered 
Private  Waller  eagerly,  "and  I'll  sort  of  crawl; 
and  if  they  spot  us,  I'll  let  you  down  easy.  Come 
on,  pard." 

Fifty  yards — that  was  all — but  fifty  yards  of 
unspeakable  agony.  The  blood  flowed  again 
from  Dennis's  wounds  and  matted  over  Waller's 
hair.  A  dozen  times  he  would  have  fainted,  but 
he  grit  his  teeth,  and  crawling,  grasping,  falling. 
Waller  took  him  to  the  edge  of  the  trench.  And 
then  a  bullet  caught  the  little  man,  and  he 
dropped. 

"Good-bye,  pard,"  he  said. 
187 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

So  died  Private  W.  Waller,  of  His  Majesty's 
Canadian  Expeditionary  Force. 


X 


Almost  a  year  later,  a  one-armed  man  was 
walking  along  a  quiet  street  in  the  northern 
suburbs  of  a  great  Canadian  city.  He  paused  at 
a  pretty  little  cottage  that  nestled  in  a  well-kept 
garden  to  speak  to  a  young  woman  whose  black 
dress  was  mute  testimony  to  her  tragic  bereave- 
ment. 

"  'Ow  can  I  ever  thank  you,  Mr.  Montague," 
she  said,  "for  giving  me  this  cottage  and  going 
guardian  to  little  'Arry?  And  your  wife,  too,  is 
that  kind  and  beautiful  that  after  she  comes — ■ 
and  she  is  in  and  out  nearly  hevery  day — I  feel 
as  if  an  angel  had  been  'ere.  Well,  if  here  ain't 
little  'Arry  with  his  face  all  dirty!" 

A  sturdy  urchin  stumbled  forward,  and  in 
some  way  the  one-armed  man  hoisted  him  to  his 
shoulder. 

"Hello,  pard!"  said  Montague. 

The  little  chap  chuckled  and  pulled  at  his  hat. 

"I  often  wonders,"  said  the  little  mother,  "why 
188 


THE  MAN  WHO  SCOFFED 

you  always  calls  him  'pard.'  Bill  used  to  call 
you  his  pard,  but  I  knew  all  along  you  wasn't. 
You  was  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Montague." 

"Mrs.  Waller,"  said  Montague,  and  his  voice 
was  very  low  and  soft,  "I  lay  one  night,  wounded 
and  dying,  on  No  Man's  Land.  Your  husband 
came  for  me,  and  he  called  me  'pard,'  and  he 
died  for  me.  Perhaps  you  may  understand  a 
little  of — what  it  means  to  me  now." 

Tears,  bitter  tears,  the  heritage  of  war.    Mrs. 

Waller    wept    silently,    and    jNIontague's    eyes 

looked  past  the  garden,  past  the  countryside,  and 

saw  neither  trees  nor  houses,  but  a  strip  of  land 

guarded  by  wire  entanglements,  and  two  lines 

of  trenches  where  men  lived,  and  laughed,  and 

learned,  and  died. 

***** 

A  little  later  the  same  oae-anaaed  man  stood  at 
a  gate  that  gave  entrance  to  a  splendid  lawn. 
It  was  his  home,  and  as  he  stood  for  a  moment 
drinking  in  the  calm  and  peace  of  Nature  at  sun- 
down, a  girl  emerged  from  the  house  and  came 
towards  him  with  outstretched  hands. 

Wonderfully  happy,  maimed,  but  filled  with 
deep  content,  Dennis  oNIontague,  the  man  who 

189 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

had  scoffed,  went  forward  to  meet  his  wife,  the 
girl  who  had  had  the  courage  to  hurt  the  thing 
she  loved.  And  the  deepening  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  spread  a  golden  carpet  for  them  to  walk 
upon. 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 


ON  a  hillock  that  overlooked  a  mill-stream  in 
Picard}%  a  girl  of  sixteen  was  lying,  face 
downwards,  reading  a  book.  The  noise  of  the 
water  tumbling  over  the  chute  was  a  song  to 
which  her  ears  had  grown  accustomed,  but  more 
than  once  she  looked  up  as  the  October  win  :1  rose 
and  fell  in  a  chromatic  whine.  A  dark,  thicken- 
ing cloud  crept  sullenlj^  towards  the  earth,  throw- 
ing its  shadow  on  her  book. 

She  gazed  up  at  it  and  sighed. 

A  black  cat,  his  green  ej^es  glowing  suspi- 
ciously in  the  fading  light,  stalked  from  the  mill- 
house  and  furtively  watched  a  wanton  leaf  that 
was  flirting  hilariously  with  the  autumn  breeze, 
until,  still  coquetting,  it  was  caught  by  the  stream 
and  carried  to  destruction. 

The  cat's  teeth  showed  for  a  moment  in  a 
191 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

sinister  grin.  Cautiously  measuring  each  step, 
he  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  hillock,  crouched 
suspiciously  as  a  blade  of  grass  moved  in  the  wind, 
then  scampered  boldly  up  to  the  girl  and  settled 
ostentatiously  upon  the  open  pages  of  the  book, 
for  a  siesta. 

''Tiens!"  The  girl  started,  laughingly  caught 
the  offender  by  the  ear,  and  pulled  him  to  one 
side.  "Louis,  you  have  very  bad  manners,"  she 
said,  speaking  in  French.  "You  come  so,  with- 
out asking  permission,  and  you  go  to  sleep  on 
The  Fairy  Prince.  Wake  up,  Louis !  To  you  I 
am  speaking." 

The  cat  opened  his  eyes,  bent  them  on  her  with 
a  reproving  look,  and  slowly  closed  them  once 
more. 

"Louis!  Wake  up — listen!  I  will  read  to  you 
The  Fairy  Prince,  and  if  you  go  to  sleep  I'll 
have  you  gr-r-r-r-ound  into  black  flour.  See 
there  now!" 

Louis  scratched  his  ear  with  a  hind  paw,  rub- 
bed his  nose  with  a  fore  one,  sneezed,  opened  his 
eyes  to  their  widest,  and  generally  indicated  that 
he  was  thoroughly  awake — in  fact,  was  not  likely 
ever  to  sleep  again  in  this  world.     His  little 

192 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

mistress  gathered  her  shawl  more  tightly  about 
her  shoulders,  and,  crossing  one  foot  over  the 
other,  shifted  her  position  to  secure  the  acme  of 
comfort. 

"Now  then,  my  friend,  attention!  This  is  all 
about  a  little  girl — like  me,  Louis,  only  she  was 
pretty.  Tell  me,  Louis,  am  I  pretty,  eh?  Stop 
yawning  when  I  ask  you  a  question  You  sleep 
almost  all  day  and  all  night,  and  when  you  do 
wake  up — you  yawn.  Pouf!  Such  laziness!  So 
— this  is  the  story.  This  httle  girl,  she  lived  like 
me  in  a  house  away,  ever  so  far  away,  from 
everything,  and  she  was  very  unhappy.  You 
understand,  Louis,  she  was  so  lonesome.  And 
every  night  she  would  cry  herself  to  sleep — as  I 

do  sometimes,  because — because Wake  up, 

you  wicked  cat!" 

The  feline  culprit  stretched  his  paws  and  sat 
up  rigidly,  like  a  slumbering  worshiper  in 
church  who  has  been  detected  in  the  act,  but 
tries  to  indicate  that  he  has  merely  been  lost  in 
contemplation  of  the  preacher's  theme.  The  girl 
frowned  at  Louis,  and,  laughing  gaily,  rubbed 
her  cheek  against  his  head. 

Her  laugh  had  hardly  ended  when,  as  her  ear 
193 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

caught  the  note  of  melancholy  in  the  wind,  she 
looked  up,  and  her  face,  which  had  hovered  a 
moment  before  between  a  frown  and  a  smile,  was 
shadowed  by  a  musing  expression  that  left  her 
eyes  dreamy  and  her  lips  drooping  in  the  slight- 
est and  most  sensitive  of  curves.  Her  dark  hair, 
rippling  into  curls,  fell  back  from  a  forehead 
whose  fullness  and  whiteness  added  to  the  spirit- 
ual innocence  of  her  countenance.  Without  be- 
ing faultless,  her  face  had  an  elusive  mobility  of 
expression  that  altered  with  each  mood  as  swiftly 
as  the  surface  of  a  pool  lying  exposed  to  the 
caprices  of  an  April  morning. 

"Is  it  not  a  pretty  story,  Louis?"  Of  a  sudden 
the  filmy  dreaminess  of  her  eyes  had  lifted,  and 
their  dark-brown  depths  sparkled  with  life.  "I 
am  so  glad  at  the  convent  they  made  me  learn  to 
read.  But  it  is  dreadfully  difficult,  my  friend — 
there  are  such  big  words,  you  see.  Well,  Louis, 
this  httle  girl  went  one  day  for  a  walk  to  the  top 
of  a  hill — but  you  shall  hear  exactly  how  it  is." 

She  carefully  found  the  place  in  the  book,  and, 
with  a  finger  following  each  line  in  case  she 
should  miss  any  of  it,  proceeded  to  read  in  that 
ecstatic  and  unreal  style  of  voice  inevitable  to 

194 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

young  people  when  uttering  other  thoughts  than 
their  own. 

"*....  Reaching  the  top  of  the  hill,  the  most 
beautiful  little  girl  in  the  world,  whose  eyes  were 
brighter  than  stars,  and  whose  lips  were  redder 
than  the  heart  of  a  rose'  (like  me,  Louis — yes?) 
*sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree  and  started  to  sing  a 
song  which  she  had  learned  from  a  solitary  shep- 
herd near  her  home.' — It  does  not  say,  Louis, 
but  I  think,  perhaps,  the  music  goes  like  this: 

"  'Mainan,  ditcs  moi  ce  qu'on  sent  quand  on  aime. 
Est-cc  plaisir,  est-ce  tourment? 
Je  suis  tout  le  jour  dans  une  peine  extreme, 
Et  la  nuit,  je  ne  sais  comment. 
Si  quelqu'un  pres.  .  .  . 

"  'And  just  then  she  saw  a  handsome  cavalier 
approaching  on  foot.'  (Is  it  not  exciting, 
Louis?)  'He  was  tall  and  young,  and  was  the 
bravest  soldier  in  all  France.  He  was  so  brave 
and  handsome  that  every  one  called  him  "The 
Fairy  Prince"  ' — Listen,  Louis,  to  the  wind." 

The  lowering  clouds  threw  black  shadows  over 
the  fields ;  the  hurrying  water  of  the  mill-stream 
turned  the  color  of  ink  as  it  made,  shudderingly, 
for  the  fall  of  the  chute.     Through  the  ominous 

195 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

rise  and  fall  of  the  October  wind  came  the  sound 
of  an  aeroplane  in  the  clouds,  to  be  lost  a  moment 
later  in  a  boisterous  rush  of  wind  that  swept  the 
girl's  tresses. 

"Come,  Louis,  under  my  shawl — so!  It  is 
cold,  is  it  not?  As  soon  as  we  finish  this  part  of 
the  story,  we  shall  go  in  by  the  stove  and  work 
until  bed-time,  then  .  .  .  Do  you  ever  dream, 
Louis?" 

The  black  cat  opened  one  green  eye  and  closed 
it  with  the  solemnity  of  an  all-understanding 
wink. 

"I  often  dream,  my  cat" — again  the  wistful- 
ness  lingered  about  her  face — "and  always  it  is 
of  the  world  that  is  past  the  village.  ...  Is  it 
that  I  must  stay  here  and  never,  never,  see  that 
world  but  when  I  dream  ?  Voyons — what  has  all 
this  to  do  with  the  Fairy  Prince?  I  continue, 
Louis:  'As  soon  as  the  handsome  cavalier  saw 
the  loveliest  little  girl  in  all  the  country,  he  came 
towards  her.  .  .  .'  " 

The  droning  sound  grew  louder.  She  looked 
up  and  watched  the  dark  billows  of  clouds  hover- 
ing over  the  fields,  when,  suddenly,  through  the 
heavy,    underhanging   mist,    an    aeroplane    ap- 

196 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

peared,  descended  swiftly  towards  the  earth, 
straightened  out  its  course,  and  soared  into  the 
clouds  again. 

She  could  hear  the  whirring  of  the  machine  as 
it  circled  round  and  round,  like  an  angry  hornet 
outside  its  nest  that  has  been  entered  by  an  in- 
vader. The  sound  of  the  engine  grew  increas- 
ingly loud ;  again  the  mists  parted  as  foam  from 
the  prow  of  a  ship,  and  again  the  aeroplane 
swooped  towards  the  earth.  She  could  almost 
make  out  the  features  of  the  helmeted  occupant, 
when,  with  a  deafening  roar,  the  machine 
checked  its  downward  flight,  and  rose  once  more 
until  the  clouds  took  it  to  their  bosom  and  hid  it 
from  sight. 

"Louis !"  Her  voice  shook.  "I  am  frightened. 
Louis,  we  will  go  in  and  pray  to  the  Virgin,  you 
and  I.  It  may  be  an  Allemand,  and,  so  'tis  said, 
they  eat  little  girls — and  black  cats  too." 

The  whir-r  of  the  engines  grew  angry  with 
intensity,  then  fainter  as  the  machine  rose  to  a 
greater  height.  Suddenly  the  droning  ceased. 
The  tumbling  waters  of  the  chute  seemed  in- 
sistently loud,  as  though  jealous  of  the  brawling 
monster  that  had  dared  to  challenge  its  incessant 

197 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

song.  The  girl  had  just  stooped  to  resume  her 
book  when,  above  the  whining  breeze,  there  was  a 
sound  like  that  of  a  saw-mill  she  had  once  heard 
in  Etrun — but  it  came  from  the  air — far  over  by 
the  village  road. 

With  a  catch  of  her  breath,  she  saw  the  aero- 
plane pierce  the  mists  once  more,  and  realized 
that  it  was  pointing  towards  her  as  it  descended. 
Rising  to  her  feet,  she  pressed  her  hand  against 
her  mouth  to  keep  from  screaming,  while  omin- 
ously, noiselessly  (but  for  an  occasional  hum 
such  as  wires  give  on  a  frosty  night),  the  giant 
bird  sped  lower  and  nearer. 

"Louis!"  she  cried.     "Louis!" 

Weak  with  terror,  she  grasped  for  the  cat,  to 
find  that  that  ungallant  protector  had  bolted 
ingloriously  to  the  mill-house.  Unable  to  move, 
she  watched  the  monster  as  it  touched  the  earth, 
bounded  lightly,  felt  the  ground  a  second  time, 
and  staggered  unevenly  over  a  rise  in  the  ground. 
There  was  a  final  Wagnerian  crescendo  of  the 
engines,  and  the  aeroplane  stopped,  motionless, 
less  than  fifty  yards  from  her. 

The  aviator  climbed  from  the  pilot's  seat  and 
looked  about  with  a  puzzled  air.    He  was  dressed 

198 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

in  a  leather  coat  which  reached  to  the  top  of  his 
riding-boots,  and  his  head  was  encased  in  a 
leather  helmet.  Raising  his  goggles,  he  looked 
toward  the  mill-house,  and,  for  the  first  time, 
caught  sight  of  the  girl. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  made  towards 
her,  taking  an  extraordinary  length  of  pace  for 
one  of  his  medium  build,  and  raising  his  knees, 
as  a  bather  will  do  when  wading  through  surf. 
He  paused,  irresolute,  about  five  jards  from 
her,  saluted,  unbuckled  a  strap,  and  removed  his 
helmet  with  a  carelessness  that  left  his  generous 
supply  of  light-brown  hair  standing  straight  up 
like  the  quills  of  a  porcupine.  His  face  was 
rather  long,  and,  except  for  his  eyes,  which 
twinkled  humorously,  bore  a  look  of  exaggerated 
solemnity.  Constant  exposure  to  the  sun  had 
tanned  his  face  a  vigorous  brown,  but  his 
moustache  and  eyebrows,  which  were  of  a  size, 
appeared  to  have  completely  faded,  and  stood 
out,  glow-worm-like,  against  the  background  of 
tan. 

For  a  full  minute  they  gazed  at  each  other, 
the  girl  with  parted  lips  and  heightened  color, 
the  new-comer's  gravity  slowly  giving  way  to  the 

199 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

good-humored  persistence  of  his  light-blue  eyes, 
until  with  a  smile  he  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
rumpled  hair. 

"Phew!"  he  said. 

With  something  between  a  sob  and  an  ex- 
clamation of  delight,  she  clapped  her  hands  to- 
gether twice.  "Cieir  she  cried,  "but  I  am  so 
happy!" 

The  mill-stream  had  ceased  to  shudder  and 
had  resumed  its  song.  .  .  .  With  an  air  of 
furtive  preoccupation,  Louis  emerged  from  con- 
cealment and  proceeded  towards  them  after  the 
manner  of  an  unpopular  Mexican  President 
walking  down  the  main  street  of  an  unfriendly 
city.  .  .  .  The  darkening  shadows  blended  with 
the  early  approach  of  night.  .  .  .  And  her  heart 
was  beating  wildly,  joyously. 

Adventure  had  come  to  the  lonely  mill-house 
in  Picardy — and,  after  all,  one  is  not  always 
sixteen. 

II 

"Will  you  please  tell  me  where  I  am?"  The 
young  man  spoke  in  French  with  ease,  but  more 
than  a  trace  of  an  English  accent. 

200 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

"This  is  my  uncle's  mill." 

"Of  course.    And  that  road? 


"But  the  village  road,  monsieur — what  else?" 

"And,  jNIademoiselle  Elusive,  what  village 
may  it  be?" 

"  'Tis  where  the  church  is,  monsieur ;  and  every 
Sunday  I  go  there  to  mass." 

The  pilot  produced  a  pipe  and,  extracting  a 
pouch,  proceeded  to  fill  it  with  tobacco. 

"I  am  lost,"  he  said  complacently.  "My  com- 
pass was  shot  away,  and  the  clouds  are  hanging 
too  low  for  me  to  follow  any  landmarks." 

He  looked  about  at  the  steadily  thickening 
twilight.  "How  far  is  it  to  the  village?"  he 
asked. 

"Five  kilometers — and  a  little  better." 

"The  Devil!"  He  made  a  screen  from  the 
wind  with  the  flap  of  his  coat,  and  lighting  his 
pipe,  puffed  it  with  evident  satisfaction.  "I  shall 
have  to  leave  the  old  'bus'  here.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she's  so  nearly  'napoo'  that  I  rather  ex- 
pected to  come  riding  home  on  one  plane,  like 
the  old  woman  with  the  broom.  But,  made- 
moiselle  " 

"Monsieur?" 

201 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"I  am  very  tired  and  distinctly  hungry,  and  I 
know  of  a  mill-house  with  a  cosy  fire  in  the 
kitchen,  where  a  pretty  little  fairy  that " 

"There  is  no  fairy — only  Louis." 

"And  who  the  deuce  may  he  be?" 

"The  cat— Z^  voicir 

He  surveyed  the  feline  with  an  air  of  tolerant 
gravity.  "Do  you  think  Louis  may  object  if  I 
remain  for  supper?" 

"Ah — but  no!"  She  laughed  gaily,  but  a  look 
of  doubt  changed  the  expression  of  her  features 
in  a  moment.  "But  my  uncle — he  never  has  any 
one  in  the  house.  For  many  years  I  have  lived 
alone  with  him.  Only  when  the  cure  comes,  per- 
haps once  a  month,  does  any  one  visit  the  mill. 
My  uncle  is  very  surly,  a  perfect  bear,  and  often 
he  gets  drunk  as  well." 

The  young  man  raised  his  absurdly  light  eye- 
brows. "A  pleasant  relative,  mademoiselle. 
And,  pray,  what  is  his  grievance  against  his  fel- 
lowmen?" 

"I  know  not,  monsieur.  All  week  he  works 
alone,  except  when  he  takes  the  flour  to  sell,  but 
on  Sundays  he  always  goes  to  church  and  leads 
the   chanting.      He   was   taught   Latin  by   his 

202 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

father,  who  was  a  gravedigger  in  Paris  and 
learned  it  from  the  tombstones.  So  on  Sundays 
my  uncle,  from  his  seat  in  the  chancel,  performs 
the  chants  in  such  a  terrible  voice  that  almost  al- 
ways some  children  scream  with  terror,  and  once 
Madame  La  Comtesse  fainted." 

The  aviator  relit  his  pipe,  which  had  gone  out, 
but  did  not  remove  his  eyes  from  hers. 

"Once,"  went  on  the  girl,  plucking  a  blade  of 
grass  and  making  a  knot  with  it  about  her  finger, 
"two  villagers,  Simon  Bar  it  and  Armand  Car- 
tier,  were  requested  by  the  cure,  who  is  very 
small  and  weak,  to  tell  my  uncle  to  sing  no  more. 
Ah  monsieur,  it  was  terrible!" 

"Yes?" 

"My  uncle  he  is  a  very  strong  man;  he  threw 
Simon  Barit  into  the  stream,  and  the  other  he 
chased  almost  to  the  village." 

"And  so,  like  the  mill-stream,  he  goes  on  for- 
ever?" 

"Ah,  yes,  monsieur,  like  the  war — forever. 
Listen!" 

A  great  voice,  sonorous  as  that  of  the  fabled 
giant  calling  for  his  evening  meal  of  an  English- 
man, rent  the  air.    The  October  wind  seemed  to 

203 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

quiver  to  its  lowest  note,  and  the  water  racing 
over  the  chute  was  quieter  than  it  had  been  for 
hours. 

"I  must  go,  monsieur.  It  is  his  supper  he 
wants." 

"And  may  I  not  come  too?" 

"Ah — but  no!    I  am  frightened." 

"Of  me?" 

She  raised  her  wide  brown  eyes  to  his,  and  her 
eyelashes,  which  so  jealously  guarded  those 
guileless  depths,  parted  grudgingly,  revealing  to 
him  their  full  beauty.  .  .  .  Another  roar  shat- 
tered the  air,  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
WTist.  "You  must  not  come,"  she  said  earnestly. 
"He  would  throw  you  into  the  stream." 

His  melancholy  face  gave  way  to  a  boyish 
grin.  "If  he  did,  mademoiselle,  my  ghost  would 
haunt  him  forever.  All  night  it  would  sing  out- 
side his  window — and,  in  truth,  my  singing  is  no 
less  terrible  than  his." 

There  was  another  roar,  followed  by  a  refer- 
ence to  the  untimely  decease  of  ten  thousand 
devils. 

Without  a  word,  she  reached  for  her  book,  and, 
throwing  her  shawl  over  her  left  shoulder,  hurried 

204 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

away.  The  aviator  watched  her  girlish  figure  with 
its  unconscious  grace,  then,  turning  about,  he 
strolled  to  the  machine,  and,  sitting  on  the  side 
of  the  fuselage,  surveyed  its  bullet-punctured 
carcass, 

"Five  kilometers  and  a  little  better,'*  he 
soliloquized  in  English,  "and  a  doubtful  prospect 
of  a  meal.  .  .  .  Contrast  that  with  what  the  gods 
offer  here — a  cosy  fire,  coffee,  eggs  and  chips,  I 
warrant,  and  the  daintiest  of  little  maids — to  say 
nothing  of  a  musical  uncle  with  an  amiable  pro- 
pensity for  throwing  visitors  into  the  stream.  By 
Jove,  it  is  chilly.  .  .  .  Over  in  dear  old  England 
they'll  be  roasting  nuts  and  telling  ghost-stories 
to-night." 

The  fast-thickening  shadows  deepened  into 
the  blackness  of  an  October  night ;  the  wind  grew 
quieter,  but  there  was  a  bite  in  the  air  that  made 
him  draw  his  fur  collar  about  his  ears. 

"What  excellent  French  the  little  lady  uses," 
he  went  on.  "I  wonder  who  her  parents  were, 
and  why  the  deuce  she  has  to  live  with  this  ogre. 
And  what  eyes!  Enough  to  make  one  invent 
new  songs  of  Araby  just  to  see  them  sparkle  and 
soften.  .  .  .  One  moment  sad,  another  tender — 

205 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

and  always  lovely.  Steady,  the  Air  Force — 
you're  becoming  sentimental." 

He  looked  at  the  battered  machine  and  shook 
his  head;  a  solitary  raindrop  lit  on  his  face  and 
slid  down  its  surface  like  a  tear. 

A  belated  gust  of  wind  smote  his  face  and  left 
it  moist.  He  rose  in  a  determined  manner  and 
adjusted  his  helmet. 

"Adieu,  my  Camel!"  He  took  a  last  survey  of 
the  machine.  "The  kitchen  is  calling  to  my 
appetite;  a  storm  is  brewing  in  the  heavens;  a 
pair  of  dark  eyes  is  urging  all  the  romance  with- 
in me;  so — mill-stream  or  no  mill-stream — mon 
oncle,  I  come." 

He  squared  his  shoulders  and,  with  the  rather 
absurd  long  stride  and  the  odd  raising  of  the 
knee,  made  for  the  cottage  door,  from  under- 
neath which  a  faint  glow  of  light  was  timidly 
emerging. 


Ill 


In  response  to  his  knock  there  was  a  roar  from 
within,  and  the  door  opened  enough  to  show  the 
young  lady  in  the  doorway. 

206 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

"Good  evening,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  saw  the 
light  in  here  and  decided  to  accept  its  kindly 
invitation." 

She  glanced  over  her  shoulder;  but  the  airman, 
gently  putting  her  to  one  side,  entered  and 
looked  serenely  about  the  room,  which  appeared 
to  be  kitchen,  dining-room,  and  parlor  in  one. 
Beside  the  stove  he  noticed  the  stooped  figure  of 
a  man,  whose  huge  black  beard  straggled  over  a 
suit  of  overalls  that  had  once  been  dark  blue,  but 
had  become  a  dirty  white  from  constant  associa- 
tion with  flour. 

"Good  evening,  monsieur."  The  airman 
handed  his  helmet  to  the  girl  and  proceeded  to 
unbutton  his  coat.  The  miller's  blotched  eyes 
rose  sulkily  to  the  visitor's  face. 

"What  do  you  want  here?"  His  voice  was 
nasal  and  slovenly,  and  there  was  a  hoarse  growl 
in  the  words,  as  though  his  throat  was  parched 
and  rusted. 

"I  am  doing  myself  the  honor  of  taking  supper 
with  you,  monsieur."  The  airman's  face  was  full 
of  melancholy  dignity  as  he  divested  himself  of 
his  coat. 

The  miller's  mouth  opened,  and  a  rasping, 
207 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

deep  snarl  resonated  disagreeably.  "There  is 
the  village,  five  kilometers  that  way." 

"Ah — but  that  is  five  kilometers  too  far." 

"You  cannot  stay  here" — the  miller's  voice 
rose  angrily — "there  is  but  food  for  two." 

The  Englishman  tapped  his  pipe  against  his 
heel,  and  blew  through  it  to  ensure  its  being 
empty.  "Then,  monsieur,"  he  said,  "you  must 
go  hungry." 

The  Frenchman  rose  to  his  feet  and  brandished 
both  arms  above  his  head.  "Go!"  he  bellowed, 
and  swore  an  oath  that  comprised  a  reference  to 
the  sacred  name  of  one  dog  and  the  sudden  de- 
mise of  the  afore-mentioned  ten  thousand  devils 
who,  it  appeared,  rested  heavily  on  his  con- 
science. 

"Mademoiselle"  —  the  young  man  turned 
politely  to  the  girl — "I  apologize  for  this  gentle- 
man. Shall  I  throw  him  into  the  stream,  or 
would  a  cleansing  spoil  his  particular  style  of 
mottled  beauty?" 

The  miller  became  eloquent.  His  language 
was  threatening,  blasphemous,  and  deafening. 
His  whole  ungainly  body  vibrated  with  a  fury 
which,  at  certain  moments,  grew  to  such  a  pitch 

208 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

that  he  would  raise  his  chin  upwards  until  all 
that  could  be  seen  was  a  forest  of  beard,  the  while 
he  emitted  an  unearthly  roar  that  could  have  been 
clearly  heard  on  the  village  road.  The  girl,  who 
had  been  making  preparations  for  supper, 
glanced  timidly  at  him,  but  continued  her  work. 
The  cat,  slumbering  by  the  stove,  opened  his  eyes 
dreamily  as  if  some  sweet  strain  had  come  to  his 
ears  then  settled  to  slumber  once  more. 

And  the  whole  room  resounded  and  quivered 
to  the  hurricane  of  sound. 

With  an  air  of  complete  imperturbability,  the 
inti'uding  guest  slowly  backed  towards  the  table 
and  became  engrossed  in  the  task  of  refilling  his 
pipe,  though  beneath  the  glow-worm  eyebrows 
his  eyes  (which  were  very  clear  and  blue,  as 
though  his  excursions  into  the  last  free  element 
of  nature  had  blown  all  the  dust  and  grime 
away)  held  the  orator  in  a  steady  look. 

"Fill  your  pipe?"  he  said  cryptically,  choosing 
a  moment  when  his  host  was  swelling  up  with  a 
breath  that  promised  to  burst  his  ribs. 

The  response  was  startling. 

Exhausting  the  air  from  his  lungs  with  the 
noise  of  steam  escaping  from  an  overcharged 

209 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

boiler,  the  miller  rushed  blindly  forward,  crouch- 
ing so  low  that  his  beard  against  his  discolored 
clothes  suggested  an  ugly  bush  against  a  back- 
ground of  slushy  snow. 

With  the  precision  of  a  guardsman  forming 
fours,  the  airman  took  one  pace  to  the  rear  with 
his  left  foot  and  one  to  the  right  with  his  right 
foot.  This  maneuver,  successfully  completed, 
placed  the  table  between  himself  and  his  assailant, 
and,  tilting  it  dexterously,  he  swiftly  thrust  that 
article  of  furniture  forward,  where  it  came  into 
violent  contact  with  the  irate  miller's  knees  and 
shins.  With  an  indescribable  howl  the  worthy 
man  fell  back  in  a  paroxysm  of  agony,  grasping 
his  knees  with  both  hands,  and  rocking  to  and 
fro  like  a  demented  dervish. 

The  airman  bowed  gravely  to  the  girl.  "I 
learned  that,"  he  said,  "from  a  gentleman  by 
name  of  Charlie  Chaplin.  If  you  can  oblige  me 
with  a  custard  pie  I  shall  hurl  it  at  your  uncle 
and  thus  complete  the  Chaplinesque  method  of 
discounting  violence." 

The  young  woman's  brows  puckered.  The 
spectacle  of  her  uncle's  discomfiture  had  not  dis- 
turbed her  so  much  as  this  new  kind  of  a  person 

210 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

who  could  bow  so  courteously,  whose  eyes 
twinkled  humorously,  and  whose  words  were  full 
of  gravity  on  the  subject  of  custard  pies.  She 
came  of  a  race  that  coordinated  gestures  and  the 
play  of  features  with  speech ;  but  this  stranger  of 
the  air — Sapristi! 

The  moaning  of  the  uncle  grew  less  and  his 
figure  stopped  its  rocking;  but  his  red,  blotchy 
eyes  looked  furtively  at  the  young  man,  biding 
their  owner's  time  for  a  renewal  of  hostilities. 

With  an  air  of  deep  dejection  the  airman 
gazed  at  the  unlovely  spectacle,  then,  very  slow- 
ly, unfastened  his  holster  and  drew  a  revolver. 

"JNIonsieur,"  he  said,  "I  offer  peace.  The  al- 
ternative is — that  I  fill  you  full  of  holes — which 
would  interfere  with  your  singing.  I  intend  to 
have  supper  here,  because  I  saw  hens  outside. 
If  they  have  given  no  eggs,  we  shall  eat  the  hens 
themselves  as  a  punishment.  We  are  allies,  you 
and  I;  let  us  be  friends  as  well.  ^Monsieur" — 
he  struck  a  Napoleonic  attitude — "Vive  VEn- 
tenter 

The  swarthy  face  of  the  miller,  who  had  re- 
tained his  posture  on  the  floor  throughout, 
wrinkled  hideously  intoja  grin,  which  developed 

211 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

into  a  roaring  laugh  that  set  a  soHtary  vase 
jingling. 

With  a  doubtful  air  of  appreciation,  the  air- 
man surveyed  him,  his  head  inclining  dubiously 
to  one  side.  "Come,  monsieur,"  he  said,  after 
the  miller's  unpleasant  mirth  had  subsided,  "you 
sit  there — at  the  far  end  of  the  table;  made- 
moiselle— when  you  have  given  us  the  supper 
things — here;  and  I,  at  this  end.  Just  to  show 
how  completely  I  trust  you,  my  host,  I  will  keep 
my  revolver  beside  my  plate;  and  should  it  be 
necessary  for  me  to  blow  your  brains  out  during 
the  meal,  it  will  be  with  the  very  keenest  regret 
that  I  lose  a  friend  for  whom  I  have  acquired 
such  an  instantaneous  and  profound  affection." 

Thus  the  young  lady  with  the  guileless  eyes, 
the  youth  who  had  descended  from  the  clouds, 
and  the  stentorian  miller  with  the  painful  knees, 
sat  down  together  for  their  evening  repast. 

And  the  mill-stream,  chuckling  as  it  sportively 
tumbled  over  the  chute,  made  a  pleasant  sere- 
nade. 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 


IV 


The  airman  glanced  at  his  wrist-watch;  it  was 
half-past  nine.  The  miller  slept  by  the  side  of 
the  stove,  his  chin  crushing  his  beard  against  his 
chest.  Louis  also  slept,  having  curled  himself 
into  a  black,  fury  ball,  apparently  possessed  of 
neither  head  nor  tail.  A  clock  brazenlj"  stating 
the  time  to  be  five-thirty,  ticked  lazily  as  though 
finding  itself  four  hours  behind  the  correct  hour, 
there  was  no  chance  of  its  ever  catching  up,  and 
it  only  kept  going  because  it  was  the  sporting 
thing  to  do.  Just  over  the  clock  a  picture  of 
^larshal  Joffre  gazed  paternally  on  the  quiet 
scene. 

Seated  at  the  table,  which  was  covered  by  a 
geranium-colored  cloth,  the  girl  and  the  airman 
sat  silent,  while  a  shaded  lamp  lent  a  crimson 
glow  through  which  her  deep  eyes  gleamed,  like 
the  first  stars  of  a  summer  evening. 

To  her  romance  had  come. 

She  was  no  longer  the  miller's  niece,  but  the 
girl  who  had  seen  the  Fairy  Prince.  All  the 
sighs,  all  the  questionings,  all  the  longings  of  her 
girlhood   had  culminated         this   amazing   ad- 

213 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

venture  of  a  fair-haired  knight  who,  descending 
from  the  clouds,  had  proceeded  to  terrorize  her 
uncle  who  was  feared  for  miles  around.  It  was 
wonderful.  And  he  was  so  droll,  this  young  man; 
and  his  voice  had  a  little  soothing  drop  in  it,  at 
times,  that  left  a  fluttering  echo  in  her  heart. 

She  had  left  the  convent  when  ten  years  of 
age,  on  the  death  of  her  mother.  Her  father — ■ 
but  then  gossip  was  never  kind.  He  was  an  offi- 
cer who  had  deserted  his  pretty  little  wife  for 
another  vvoman — or  so  rumor  had  it;  and  her 
mother  had  died,  a  flower  stricken  by  a  frost. 
The  daughter  had  been  taken  by  a  relative,  the 
owner  of  a  lonely  mill,  and  for  six  years  had  lived 
in  solitude,  her  horizon  of  life  limited  to  the  ad- 
jacent village,  her  knowledge  of  women  gained 
from  the  memory  of  a  sad,  yearning  face,  paler 
than  the  pillow  on  which  it  rested,  and  an  oc- 
casional visit  to  the  cure's  sister.  Of  men  she 
knew  only  her  uncle  and  the  few  villagers  that 
had  not  gone  to  fight  for  La  Belle  France. 

From  unquestioning  childhood  she  had  passed 
to  that  stage  in  a  girl's  life  when  the  emotions 
leap  past  tlie  brain,  fretful  of  the  latter's  plod- 
ding pace.     Her  mind  untutored,  unsharpened 

214 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

by  contact  with  other  minds,  left  her  the  lan- 
guage and  the  reasonings  of  a  child ;  but  her  im- 
agination, feeding  on  the  strange  longings  and 
dreams  which  permeated  her  life,  pictured  its 
own  world  where  romance  held  sway  over  all  the 
creatures  that  inhabited  its  realm. 

It  is  the  instinct  of  a  little  child  to  picture  un- 
real things — the  unconscious  protest  of  imma- 
turity against  the  commonplaceness  of  life.  But 
with  the  education  of  to-day  and  the  labyrinth 
of  artificiality  which  characterizes  modern  livings 
the  imaginativeness  of  childhood  disappears,  ex- 
cept in  a  few  great  minds  who,  retaining  it,  are 
hailed  by  the  world  as  possessors  of  genius. 

Unhampered  (or  unhelped,  as  the  case  may 
be)  by  association  with  the  patchwork  pattern 
of  society,  the  miller's  niece  had  retained  her  gift 
of  imagination,  without  which  the  solitude  and. 
the  monotony  of  her  daj^s  would  have  been  un- 
endurable; until,  blending  it  with  the  budding 
flower  of  womanhood,  she  found  mystery  in  the 
moaning  of  the  wind.  While  the  sun  danced 
upon  the  grass  her  spirit  mingled  with  the  sun- 
light; and  when  the  moon  exercised  her  suze- 
rainty of  the  heavens   the  poetry  in  her  soul 

215 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

thrilled  to  sweet  dreams  of  lover's  wooings 
(though  her  unreasoned  rapture  often  ended  in 
unreasoned  tears  upon  the  pillow).  .  .  .  She 
found  melancholy  in  the  coloring  of  an  autumn 
leaf,  and  laughter  in  the  music  of  the  mill-stream. 
.  .  .  There  were  smugglers'  tales  in  a  northeast 
gale,  and  fairy  stories  in  a  summer's  shower. 

The  doctrine  of  pleasure  so  feverishly  followed 
by  her  sisters  to-day  was  unknown  to  her — as 
was  its  insidious  reaction  which  comes  to  so  many 
women,  with  the  dulling  of  the  perceptions,  the 
blinding  of  eyes  to  the  colors  of  life,  the  deaden- 
ing of  ears  to  the  music  of  nature,  until  they 
cannot  hear  the  subtle  melody  of  happiness  itself, 
so  closely  allied  to  the  somber  beauty  of  sorrow. 

"Little  one" — the  aviator's  voice  was  very 
soft,  so  that  the  ticking  of  the  clock  sounded 
clearly  above  it — "in  a  few  minutes  I  must  go. 
It  is  a  dark  night,  and  of  necessity  I  must  get 
to  the  village  to-night,  and  be  on  my  way  be- 
fore dawn." 

Her  eyes  were  hidden  by  her  drooping  eye- 
lashes. "You  will  return — yes?"  she  asked, 
without  looking  up. 

He  smiled  rather  wistfully.  "  'When  the  red- 
216 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

breasted  robins  are  nesting,'  "  he  quoted  slowly, 
"  'I  shall  come.'  " 

The  clock  ticked  wearily  on.  ...  A  few  drops 
of  rain  fell  upon  the  roof. 

"Monsieur" — the  crimson  in  her  cheeks  deep- 
ened— "you  must  not  smile;  but  it  is  in  my  book, 
here." 

She  took  from  the  table  The  Fairy  Prince, 
and  handed  it  to  him.  He  gazed  at  it  with  a 
seriousness  he  might  have  shown  towards  a  book 
of  Scottish  theology. 

"You  know,  monsieur" — she  appeared  deeply 
concerned  in  the  design  of  the  geranium  table- 
cover — "I  never  leave  the  mill-house  unless  to 
attend  mass,  and  sometimes — perhaps  you  would 
think  so,  too — it  is  very  lonesome;  no  brother, 
no  sister,  just  Louis  and  my  uncle." 

He  nodded,  and,  with  an  air  of  abstraction, 
his  brow  wrinkled  sympathetically,  and  his  fin- 
gers strummed  five-finger  exercises  on  the  table. 

"It  must  be  very  dull,"  he  said. 

"But  no,  monsieur" — her  ej^es  looked  up  in 
protest — "not  dull — just  lonesome." 

He  sustained  an  imaginary  note  with  his  lit- 
tle finger,  frowned  thoughtfully  until  his  eye- 

217 


T^E  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

brows  almost  obscured  his  eyes,  then  came  down 
the  scale  with  slow  and  measured  pace. 

"Well,  little  lady  who  is  never  dull,  and  what 
has  all  this  to  do  with  The  Fairy  Prince?" 

"It  is  because  I  have  no  sisters,  no  friends, 
that — that  I  pretend.  But  you  do  not  under- 
stand." 

He  played  some  chord  with  both  hands. 

"Very  young  people  and  very  old  ones  pre- 
tend," he  said,  with  dreamy  sententiousness ; 
"pretending  is  what  makes  them  happy.  But  the 
Prince ?" 

She  smiled  deprecatingly.  "When  I  read, 
monsieur,  I  think  that  the  girl — there  is  al- 
ways a  girl,  is  there  not?"  He  nodded  gravely. 
"I  do  not  think  it  is  she,"  she  went  on,  "but  my- 
self; and  when  the  book  is  finished,  and  she  mar- 
ries her  lover,  then  I  am  happy  .  .  .  and 
dream  ..." 

"  *We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,'  " 
he  murmured,  and  trilled  with  his  first  and  sec- 
ond fingers. 

"So,  monsieur,"  she  continued,  glancing  shyly 
at  him,  "in  that  book " 

"There  is  a  girl." 

218 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

"Yes.  And  a  Fairy  Prince  who  was  very 
handsome." 

"Like  me?" 

"It  does  not  say,  monsieur." 

"Ah!" 

"But  I  think  so,"  she  said  earnestly,  "for  he 
was  the  handsomest  man  in  all  France." 

"It  said  nothing  of  England?" 

"No,  monsieur,  only  France." 

He  nodded  with  great  dignity,  and  motioned 
her  to  proceed.  She  leaned  forward  with  her 
elbows  on  the  table,  and  rested  her  chin  on  her 
interlocked  fingers. 

"To-day  I  was  reading  it  to  Louis,"  she  said, 
"when,  just  at  the  moment  that  they  met — vous 
voila! — you  came.  Monsieur,"  she  said  naively, 
"are  you  a  fairy  prince?" 

He  considered,  with  head  characteristically  on 
one  side. 

"N-no,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  claim  that, 
but " 

"Ah,  yes?"  Her  face  lit  up  with  delighted 
anticipation. 

"I  am  a  prince  of  the  air."  He  struck  an  atti- 
tude and  held  it. 

219 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Oh!"  Her  lips  parted  in  ecstasy  and  her 
cheeks,  which  had  been  crimson,  became  scarlet. 
"You — are  really  a  prince?" 

"Of  the  air,  mademoiselle."  He  folded  his 
arms  and  tilted  his  chair  back.  His  face  was  still 
grave,  but  his  voice  had  a  sense  of  distance  in  it, 
and  his  light  eyes  widened  as  though  they  saw 
the  world  his  words  were  picturing.  "My  king- 
dom is  greater  than  all  the  kingdoms  of  the 
earth,  and  when  I  ride,  my  steed  with  wings  takes 
me  towards  the  stars.  For  sport  I  play  with 
clouds  and  race  the  wind;  at  night  the  moon 
gives  me  light;  and  when  I  travel  there  are  no 
mountains  to  climb,  no  lakes  to  cross.  I  go  faster 
than  the  swiftest  horse,  and  ride  from  villages 
to  cities,  out  into  the  country,  and  over  the  sea 
with  a  steed  that  never  tires." 

"But,  monsieur,"  she  cried,  "this  is  wonder- 
ful!" 

He  looked  frankly  into  her  eyes.  "It  is  won- 
derful," he  said. 

For  a  few  minutes  neither  spoke,  and  the  soft 
symphony  of  raindrops  played  through  the  quiet- 
ness of  the  night. 

"Your  Majesty,"  she  said  timorously,  "are  you 
220 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

very  brave?  You  understand,"  she  hurried  on  as 
a  slight  blush  darkened  the  tan  of  his  cheks,  "in 
fairy  books  the  prince  always  fights  a  dragon  or 
a  wicked  giant." 

"Don't  uncles  count?" 

She  made  a  pretty  moue. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  he  said  slowly,  "there 
was  a  wicked  Emperor — a  blustering  pppinjay 
with  a  madman's  vanity — who  decreed  that  all 
the  world  should  be  his  slaves,  and  sent  his  armies 
into  France  and  Belgium  to  enforce  his  will. 
My  brothers  heard  of  this,  and  came  from  coun- 
tries and  dominions  thousands  of  miles  away. 
Across  great  continents  of  water  they  sailed, 
and,  with  their  brothers  from  the  little  Islands  of 
the  North  Sea,  came  to  France  .  .  ." 

"Your  voice  is  very  sad,"  she  said  tenderly. 
Her  nature,  that  knew  every  mood  of  a  summer 
breeze,  had  caught  the  inflection  of  his  words, 
understanding  by  their  tone  what  the  vagueness 
of  his  words  hid  from  her  mind. 

"So  many  have  died,"  he  said,  looking  away 
from  her.  "Almost  every  day  some  one  rides  out 
into  the  sunlight  to  his  death,  young,  brave,  and 

221 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

smiling.  .  .  .  IMademoiselle,  it  is  wonderful  how 
they  smile." 

Tick— tick— tick. 

For  more  than  a  minute  neither  spoke,  then, 
with  a  smile  that  was  strangely  boyish,  he 
squared  his  shoulders  and  ran  his  fingers  through 
his  rumpled  hair. 

"Ha!"  he  laughed;  "what  fancies  get  into  a 
scatter-brain  like  mine  when  the  rain's  a-patter- 
ing  on  the  roof.  If  you  will  allow  me,  little 
Pippa,  I  shall  smoke." 

"Little  Peepa?"  she  laughed  delightedly. 

"Pippa,"  he  assented,  puffing  smoke  as  he 
lighted  the  pipe.  "I  think  I  shall  call  you  that. 
You  see,  according  to  her  biogi'apher,  Mr. 
Bro^\Tiing,  she  worked  in  the  silk-mills  all  the 
year,  but  one  day  she  had  to  herself,  from  dawn 
to  midnight,  and  so  as  to  enjoy  it  to  the  full  she 
— well,  she  pretended,  like  you." 

"But  that  is  droll,"  she  said  eagerly,  "for  every 

Easter  after  Sunday,  my  uncle,  who  is  fatigued 

from  so  much  chanting  in  the  church,  always 

goes  to  Boulogne  and  becomes  drunk  for  one 

whole  day.     On  Vrednesday  he  returns.     These 

six  years  he  has  done  it  always  the  same ;  and  on 

009 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

the  Tuesday  it  is  wonderful.  I  am  alone  with 
Louis,  and  we  ask  all  the  people  in  our  books 
to  visit  us." 

A  sudden  gleam  of  excitement  lit  his  eyes. 

"The  Tuesday  after  Easter?" 

"Always  it  is  so." 

"Pippa,"  he  said — but  checked  the  remainder 
of  his  words.  He  placed  the  pipe  in  his  mouth 
and  ran  five-finger  exercises  at  a  terrific  speed. 

"Pippa,"  he  said  again,  then,  ceasing  his  dis- 
play of  virtuosity,  leaned  back  and  gazed  at  her 
from  beneath  his  eyebrows.  "Next  spring,  on 
the  Tuesday  after  Easter,  I  will  come  for  you." 

She  caught  her  breath  deliriously. 

"Beyond  the  village  road,"  he  went  on,  speak- 
ing slowly  and  distinctly,  "I  saw  a  big  pasture- 
field  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  Be  there  as  the  sun 
is  just  above  the  horizon,  and  I  will  come  in  an 
aeroplane.'' 

"And,  your  JNIajesty,  you  will  take  me  to 
your  kingdom?" 

"For  one  day,  Pippa,  to  the  great  city  of  Lon- 
don— the  city  that  is  open  to  all  who  possess  a 
golden  key.  We  shall  return  by  the  stars  at 
night." 

223 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Then" — her  voice  shook,  and  the  brilliancy 
of  her  eyes  was  softened  by  sudden  tears,  as  the 
rays  of  an  August  sun  are  sometimes  tempered 
by  a  shower,  "then — at  last — I  am  to  see  the 
world — boys  and  girls  and  palaces  and " 


"To  say  nothing  of  prunes  and  potentates." 

"Oh,  but,  your  Majesty,  it  is  too  wonderful. 
I  am  certain  it  will  not  come  true." 

He  rose  and  quietly  placed  his  chair  against 
the  wall.  "Pippa,"  he  said,  "there  are  only  two 
things  that  could  prevent  it.  One,  if  there  is  a 
storm  and — the  other "  he  shook  his  head  im- 
patiently. 

The  girl  took  down  a  work-basket,  and  after 
searching  its  contents  extracted  a  tiny  trinket. 

"You  mean,"  she  said,  stepping  lightly  over  to 
him,  "that  you  might  go  to  join  your  brothers — 
those  who  smiled  so  bravely?" 

"We  never  know,  Pippa,"  he  answered. 

She  reached  for  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and 
pinned  the  little  keepsake  on  it.  "  'Tis  a  black 
cat,"  she  said.  "I  saw  it  in  the  village  store,  so 
small  and  funny,  like  Louis.  It  is  a  gift  from 
little  Pippa,  who  will  pray  to  the  Virgin  every 

224 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

night  that  her  Prince  may  not  be  killed — un- 
less  " 

He  looked  at  the  little  mascot,  which  dangled 
above  a  couple  of  ribbons. 

"Unless?"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  flash  in  her  eyes 
and  a  sudden  crimson  flush  in  her  cheeks  that 
startled  him.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
felt  the  instinct  of  a  tigress;  that  strange  fusion 
of  passion  and  timidity  that  comes  to  women  of 
her  kind  when  it  seems  they  may  lose  the  object 
of  their  love. 

"Unless  he — forgets."  The  words  were 
spoken  between  lips  that  hardly  moved. 

"By  the  sacred  bones  of  my  ancestors,"  he 
said,  with  a  sort  of  sincere  grandiloquence,  "I 
promise  to  come.  So  that  I  shall  always  think 
of  you,  my  Pippa,  I  will  paint  a  black  cat  upon 
the  machine,  and  woe  to  the  Hun  who  dares  to 
singe  its  whiskers!" 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  heavily  coated  figure 
of  an  aviator  was  plowing  its  way  through  a 
drizzling  rain,  along  a  dark  and  solitary  road. 
His  pace  was  extraordinarily  long  for  his  height, 

225 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

and  he  appeared  to  be  stepping  over  a  perpetual 
array  of  obstacles  at  least  one  foot  high. 

By  a  casement  window  a  girl,  with  hair  like 
the  dusk,  stood  gazing  towards  the  road  that  was 
hidden  in  darkness.  Silently  and  motionless  she 
watched  the  melancholy  drops  of  rain  as  they  fell 
upon  the  glass,  until,  unconsciously,  her  lips 
parted  and  she  sang,  very  softly,  the  little  song 
taught  to  the  maiden  in  the  story  by  the  lonely 
shepherd : 

"Maman,  dites  moi  ce  qu'on  sent  quand  on  aime. 
Est-ce   plaisir,   est-ce   tourment?" 

She  paused  in  the  improvised  melody,  and  re- 
peated the  words  slowly. 

"Est-ce   plaisir,   est-ce  tourment?" 

And  then  the  little  mistress  of  the  mill  laid  her- 
self upon  her  bed  and  wept  profusely;  but 
whether  it  was  because  she  was  happy  or  because 
she  was  sorrowful,  let  those  explain  who  under- 
stand the  psychology  of  a  woman's  tears. 

Downstairs,  Louis  and  the  miller  slept  pro- 
foundly. 

226 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 


It  was  several  months  later  that  an  airman 
emerged  from  his  hut  into  the  chilly  air  of  an 
April  night  that  was  lingering  grudgingly  over 
its  last  hour  of  darkness.  There  was  a  sullen 
rumble  of  guns  borne  on  a  restless  breeze  that 
stirred  the  long  grass  of  the  fields  and  set  the 
leaves  in  the  trees  whispering  and  quivering. 
The  drone  could  be  heard  of  a  lonely  aeroplane 
returning  from  its  night-ride  over  the  enemy 
lines.  .  .  .  Above  the  distant  roll  of  the  artillery, 
one  gun  stood  out  like  a  pizzicato  note  on  a  giant 
bass  violin. 

The  airman  passed  the  silent  aerodrome,  and, 
with  difficulty  accustoming  himself  to  the  dark- 
ness, made  out  the  shadow  of  a  machine  in  the 
adjoining  field.  He  heard  the  sigh  of  cylinders 
sucking  in  the  petrol  as  the  mechanics  warmed 
the  machine,  and  walked  over  to  it.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  spoke  to  the  men  before  climbing  into 
the  pilot's  seat.  There  followed  the  incisive 
monotone  of  the  flier's  incantation  between  him- 
self and  the  non-commissioned  officer. 

227 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Petrol  on:  switch  off." 

"Petrol  on:  switch  oiF." 

"Contact." 

"Contact." 

The  propellers  were  swung  into  action,  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  then  wheezily  subsided. 

The  incantation  was  repeated;  the  propeller 
blades  coughed,  and  leaped  into  a  deafening  roar. 
The  mechanics  sprang  aside,  and  the  machine, 
stumbling  forward  for  a  few  yards,  turned  into 
the  wind.  There  was  a  sudden  acceleration  of  the 
propeller,  a  crescendo  from  the  engines,  and  the 
machine  made  swiftly  across  the  field,  rising  as  it 
attained  flying  speed,  and  disappearing  into  the 
night. 

A  few  moments  later  its  light  was  mixing  with 
the  dulling  stars,  and  the  drone  of  its  engine 
could  be  heard  only  at  the  whim  of  the  breeze. 

"I  wonder  what  the  Black  Cat's  up  to  now," 
said  mechanic  No.  1,  rubbing  his  hands  together 
for  warmth.    "Rum  beggar,  isn't  he?" 

His  companion  slapped  his  breast  with  his 
arms  and  blew  on  his  fingers.  "Mad  as  a  March 
hare,"  he  growled;  "takes  a  two-seater  out  at 
this  time  of  night." 

228 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

"And  did  you  notice  the  extra  outfit?" 

"He's  mad,"  repeated  the  bef ore-dawn  psy- 
chologist, "mad  as  a  rabbit." 

"But  he's  a  mighty  stout  boy,"  interposed  the 
N.C.O.,  who  was  torn  between  his  duty  of  keep- 
ing disciphne  and  his  love  of  character  study; 
"and  he  sure  puts  the  wind  up  Fritz  when  he  takes 
off  with  his  Black  Cat  Bristol  fighter." 

The  blackness  of  night  was  beginning  to  give 
way  to  a  dull  and  sullen  gray  as  the  solitary  pilot 
made  a  detour  over  the  lines.  In  the  gloom  be- 
neath he  could  see  a  long  crescent  of  orange- 
colored  flashes  where  the  British  guns  were  main- 
taining their  endless  pounding  of  the  enem5^ 
Farther  east  was  a  large  patch  of  winking,  yellow 
lights,  giving  to  his  eye  the  same  effect  as  flakes 
of  gunpowder  dropped  upon  a  heated  stove:  it 
was  the  bursting  of  the  British  shells.  Beyond 
that  field  of  death  he  could  see  other  and  larger 
flashes,  and  knew  the  Hun  was  replying  in  kind. 

Everywhere  the  darkness  was  being  penetrated 
by  long,  rocket-like  lights  with  a  white,  starry 
burst  at  the  end,  and,  as  though  to  give  variety 
to  the  scene,  a  few  red  and  green  bursts  mingled 
garishly  with  them. 

229 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

To  the  airman,  from  his  refuge  of  height,  it  all 
combined  in  an  uncanny  pageant  of  fireworks — 
a  weird  spectacle  of  death,  as  though  hell  had 
opened  and  the  passions  of  men  were  feeding  the 
flames  to  make  a  devils'  holiday. 

A  searchlight  woke  him  from  his  reverie.  A 
couple  of  anti-aircraft  guns  barked  at  him.  With 
a  smile  he  noticed  the  rapid  approach  of  morn- 
ing's light,  and,  turning  to  the  west,  he  set  his 
course  by  the  compass  and  made  for  the  lonely 
mill-house  of  Picardy. 


VI 


From  a  meadow  at  the  top  of  a  hill,  a  girl 
watched  the  horizon  of  the  east  as  the  first 
glow  of  daylight  heralded  the  arrival  of  Aurora's 
chariot.  The  hurried  walk  from  the  mill-house 
and  the  climbing  of  the  hill  had  set  her  pulses 
throbbing  with  vitality,  and  as  she  watched  the 
dull  gray  give  way  with  the  promise  of  dawn,  a 
wild,  unthinking  spirit  of  exaltation  seized  her. 
Like  the  Pippa  of  Browning's  song,  she  felt  her 
spirit  rise  with  the  triumph  of  nature. 

230 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

Day! 

Faster  and  more  fast. 

O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  lost: 

Boils,  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim 

Where  spurting  and  supjiressed  it  lay. 

For  not  a  frotli-flake  touched  the  rim 

Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  gray 

Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away; 

But  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled. 

Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  suppressed. 

Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 

Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed  the  world. 

But  he  had  not  come — her  Prince  with  the 
solemn  face  and  the  laughing  eyes.  Day  after 
day,  through  the  long  winter,  she  had  lived  for 
this  hour,  thrilling  over  it,  picturing  it,  dreaming 
of  it — hoth  awake  and  asleep.  .  .  .  And  he  had 
not  come. 

Suppose — supposing 

Her  heart  leaped  painfully.  She  had  heard  a 
sound  like  the  humming  of  an  insect — faint — 
then  more  clear.  The  hum  became  a  drone,  and 
in  sheer  intoxication  she  reached  her  hands  to- 
wards the  east  as  the  sun,  well  above  the  horizon, 

231 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

illumed  the  sky  with  gold-red  flames.  Blinded 
by  its  brilliancy,  she  turned  away;  but  her  ear 
heard  the  cessation  of  the  engine  as  the  pilot 
brought  his  machine  towards  the  earth.  She  knew 
that  he  must  be  approaching  her ;  yet  she  kept  her 
face  averted,  on  some  caprice  of  sixteen  years, 
until  she  heard  his  voice  calling,  a  few  yards  off. 

He  bowed  very  low  as,  with  lowered  eyes,  she 
gave  him  her  hand ;  then,  indicating  a  coat  on  his 
arm,  he  leant  towards  her,  with  some  effort  mak- 
ing his  voice  heard  above  the  impatient  throbbing 
of  the  aeroplane's  engine. 

"Take  off  your  hat,"  he  cried,  noticing  with 
quick  approval  the  pretty  costume  she  wore  ( for 
however  poor  she  may  be,  no  French  girl  is  witli- 
out  one  becoming  frock),  "and  slip  your  curls 
into  this  helmet.    It's  the  largest  I  could  find." 

She  did  as  she  was  bidden,  laughing  delight- 
edly. 

"Now,  youngster,  climb  into  this." 

He  wrapped  her  in  a  fur-lined  leather  coat, 
and  after  buttoning  it  securely,  lingered  for  a 
moment  over  the  amusing  and  dainty  picture  she 
presented.  Then,  picking  her  up  in  his  arms,  he 
carried  her  over  to  the  machine  and  deposited  her 

232 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

in  the  observer's  seat,  fastening  the  belt.  He  was 
just  about  to  climb  into  his  place  in  front,  when, 
changing  his  mind,  he  leaned  over  to  her  and 
placed  both  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"Frightened?"  he  smiled,  speaking  so  close  to 
her  ear  that  a  truant  curl  brushed  against  his 
cheek. 

She  shook  her  head  decisively — for  a  consid- 
erable period  she  had  been  beyond  the  power  of 
speech. 

He  looked  into  her  eyes,  which  seemed  to  have 
borrowed  something  of  the  sunlight,  and  patted 
her  reassuringly  on  the  shoulder.  .  .  .  And 
]\Iademoiselle  Pippa,  niece  of  the  absent  miller, 
would  have  gone  straight  to  the  moon  with  him 
had  it  been  his  wish  and  in  his  power. 

She  watched  him  wonderingly  as  he  lifted  a 
heavy  sand-bag  used  as  ballast,  and  dropped  it  on 
the  ground.  The  next  moment  he  was  in  the 
pilot's  seat,  there  w^as  a  crescendo  of  the  engine, 
a  waddling  sensation  as  the  aeroplane  went  for- 
ward, the  sudden  development  of  the  crescendo, 
the  burst  of  speed,  and  .  .  . 

The  earth  was  receding ! 

She  caught  her  breath,  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
233 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

hands  to  stifle  a  cry  and  keep  the  sight  from  her 
ej^es.  She  had  been  afraid  that  she  would  faint 
with  dizziness,  and  for  a  full  minute  sat,  terror- 
stricken,  until,  gaining  courage,  she  tremblingly 
parted  two  fingers  and  cast  a  timorous  glance  be- 
low. A  cry  escaped  from  her — but  it  was  not  one 
of  fear. 

Beneath  her,  though  she  was  not  conscious  of 
height,  the  countryside  spread,  a  great  master- 
piece of  color,  the  light  brown  of  plowed  fields 
standing  out  vividly  against  the  green  of  meadows 
where  sheep  (she  laughed  out  at  the  thought) 
were  huddled  in  little  groups  like  peanuts ;  roads 
had  become  paths,  and  cottages  were  dwarfed  to 
miniature  dwellings  for  the  tiniest  dolls. 

But — she  felt  no  height. 

Only,  the  landscape,  refreshed  after  its  long 
winter  repose,  kept  closing  in — closing  in,  dis- 
playing new  beauties  every  minute,  as  though  she 
were  in  real  truth  a  Fairy  Princess  summoning 
villages  and  rivers  and  farms  into  one  vast  tapes- 
try of  nature. 

And  this  was  France !  As  far  as  the  eye  could 
see,  it  was  France,  the  mother  of  greatness.  For 
the  first  time  she  pictured  the  w  ide,  charred  plains 

234 


THE  AIRY  PRINXE 

where  the  Ilun  had  been,  and  scalding  tears  hid 
everything  from  her  sight. 

Several  times  her  cavalier  of  the  clouds  had 
turned  around  to  see  that  she  was  not  frightened, 
and,  as  often  as  he  did  so,  she  nodded  excitedly, 
and  waved  both  hands  after  the  manner  of  an 
orchestral  conductor  calling  for  a  fortissimo. 
Once  he  shut  off  the  engines,  and  they  seemed  to 
lie  in  the  wind,  a  becalmed  ship  of  the  air. 

"All  right?"  he  queried  inelegantly. 

She  tried  to  think  of  some  word  to  summarize 
her  emotions,  but,  failing  utterly,  raised  her  gog- 
gles and  thanked  him  with  her  eyes.  A  woman's 
methods  are  not  affected  bj'  altitude. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  they  had  flown  for  an 
hour,  when,  in  her  tapestry  of  landscape,  she 
found  the  gradual  inclusion  of  the  steeples  and 
the  roof-tops  of  a  city,  the  streets  of  which  gave 
the  impression  of  having  been  drawn  with  a  broMH 
crayon  with  the  aid  of  a  ruler.  The  aeroplane 
appeared  to  be  turning  with  the  wind,  and  she 
grasped  the  side  of  the  fuselage,  when  the  whole 
scene  was  obliterated  by  a  sea  of  billowy  foam 
that  left  her  cheek  wet.  She  laughed  with  de- 
light, and  reached  out  with  her  hands,  as  though 

235 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

she  would  grasp  the  foam  and  compress  it  hke 
snow  in  her  fingers.  She  sang  and  clapped  her 
hands  in  sheer  joyousness.  She  was  alone  with 
her  Prince  in  a  world  of  dreams.  The  billows  of 
foam  grew  less  dense,  became  a  mist  through 
which  light  gleamed,  and  they  emerged  once 
more.  Beneath  them  lay  the  Channel,  shimmer- 
ing in  the  April  sun.  The  magic  wand  drew  the 
Strait  to  her  gaze  as  it  had  done  the  fields  of 
France.  .  .  .  Suddenly  there  was  no  throbbing 
of  the  engine,  and  they  seemed  to  float,  motion- 
less, in  space. 

He  turned  around  and  pointed  to  a  border  of 
white  that  lay  against  the  blue  of  the  water, 

"Enfin!"  he  cried.    "England!" 

VII 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door  of  "The  Plough 
and  Crown,"  which,  in  spite  of  its  similarity  to  the 
title  of  a  treatise,  is  the  name  of  an  exceedingly 
cosy  little  inn  less  than  twenty  miles  from  the 
outskirts  of  London.  The  landlady  answered  in 
person,  presenting  just  the  stout,  apple-cheeked, 

236 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

buxom  appearance  that  any  one  would  expect 
from  the  ov/ner  of  so  cheery  a  hostelry. 

"Good-morning  to  you,  sir — and  to  you,  miss," 
said  the  estimable  woman,  as  the  unlocked  door 
revealed  an  airman  of  solemn  mien  and  a  blush- 
ing young  lady  whose  hair  had  been  blown  into 
utter  and  captivating  disorder. 

A  very  small  dog  appeared,  irritably,  from 
some  subterranean  passage,  and  taking  in 
the  sight  of  strangers,  proceeded  to  bark  with 
such  energy  that,  with  each  effort,  he  was  shunted 
several  inches  to  the  rear,  like  a  gun  recoiling 
after  discharge,  until  from  very  ill-temper  he 
barked  himself  completely  off  the  scene  and  out 
of  this  history. 

"Good-morning,  madam,"  said  the  aviator. 
"This  young  lady  and  myself  would  like  to  have 
breakfast  at  your  house." 

The  girl  glanced  furtively  at  him.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  heard  him  speak  in  English. 

"Bless  your  baby  faces!"  cried  the  good 
woman.  "Come  in  out  of  the  chilly  morning; 
though  what  you  be  doing  at  this  hour  is  beyond 
the  likes  o'  me  to  fathomate"  (a  word  which  per- 

237 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

formed  its  function  by  being  thoroughly  under- 
stood) . 

She  led  them  into  the  coffee-room,  where  he  re- 
moved his  coat  and  helmet,  and  threw  them,  to- 
gether with  the  girl's  flying-costume,  over  a  chair. 
A  sleepy-eyed  and  slovenly  young  woman-of-all- 
work  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  proceeded  to 
build  a  wood  fire  in  the  grate ;  while  the  landlady, 
after  the  manner  of  her  kind,  bustled  about, 
shifting  chairs,  colHding  with  the  fire-making 
girl,  removing  glasses  from  the  bar  to  the  table, 
from  the  table  to  the  shelf,  and  back  again  to  the 
bar  again,  all  the  while  talking  incessantly,  or 
making  comfortable  noises  when  words  failed  her 
(which  was  very  seldom),  and  in  short,  giving 
that  feeling  of  hospitable  activity  handed  down 
from  the  good  old  days  when  passengers  used  to 
arrive  by  coach  at  "The  Plough  and  Crown." 

"Madam,"  said  the  flying-man,  seizing  a  mo- 
ment when  a  more  than  usually  severe  jolt  against 
her  assistant  had  deprived  the  good  woman  of 
breath,  "I  must  telephone  the  aerodrome  at 
Hounslow  to  send  for  my  machine,  so  I  shall 
stroll  to  the  post-office  down  the  road.     In  the 

238 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 


meantime — this    young    lady    speaks    no    Eng- 
lish  " 

"Bless  her  heart!  What  heathen  country " 


" speaks  no  English,"  he  persisted,  "and 

has  traveled  a  long  distance  in  the  air " 

"Well,  I've  often  said  that " 


" in  the  air,"  he  repeated,  stifling  her  phi- 
losophy in  its  birth,  "and  I  shall  be  grateful  if 
you  will  give  her  any  attentions  that  your  kind 
heart  may  suggest.  She  is  cold,  and  I  suppose 
she  wants  to  make  herself  look  pretty." 

"Leave  her  to  me,  the  sweet  innocent.  If  she 
were  my  own  daughter,  me  not  having  any, 
but " 

"When  I  return,  may  we  have  breakfast?" 

"A  simple  breakfast  'twill  have  to  be,"  said  the 
hostess,  emitting  the  words  with  a  forcefulness  re- 
miniscent of  a  geyser  that  has  been  supporting  on 
its  chest  a  mountain  which  has  obligingly  shifted 
its  position.  "Things  is  awful  bad,  and  the  Gov- 
ernment don't  trust  no  one  these  days.  But  I'll 
see  what  I  can  get  for  you  two  children,  for 
you're  an  officer  gentleman,  and  my  own  good 
man's  in  the  army — London  Scottish  he  is, 
though  he  ain't  any  more  Scottish  than  the  Pope 

239 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

of  Rome;  but  he  always  had  a  fine  figure,  had 
my  man — Jacob  Wilson  is  his  name,  for  thirty 
year  owner  of  "The  Plough  and  Crown,"  which 
always  is  welcome  to  them  as  wants  a  pint  o'  bit- 
ter or  a  bed  for  the  night,  and  always  will  be  as 
long  as  Jacob  Wilson  or  me  is  to  be  found  in  the, 
taproom  when  opening-time  arrives." 

After  this  announcement  of  the  past  and  fu- 
ture policy  of  "The  Plough  and  Crown,"  the 
worthy  woman  seized  a  chair  that  was  innocently 
gazing  out  of  the  window,  and  placed  it  directly 
opposite  a  highly  colored  picture  of  a  young  lady 
in  pink,  talkin^g  to  a  blue  young  gentleman, 
while  a  yellow  horse,  in  proportion  a  little  larger 
than  the  horse  of  Troy,  looked  soulfully  at  them 
over  a  hedge. 

Having  done  this,  she  rested  her  hands  on  her 
hips  and  sighed  like  a  woman  who  knows  she  is 
overworked,  but  is  resigned  to  her  fate. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  airman  politely,  then 
turned  to  his  companion,  who  had  been  staring  in 
wide-eyed  bewilderment  at  the  activities  of  Mrs. 
Jacob  Wilson.  .  .  .  Frowning  heavily  at  his 
young  passenger,  he  inserted  his  pipe  into  his 
mouth,  and  left  the  inn  without  another  word, 

240 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

sauntering  along  the  roadway,  where  hedges  and 
meadow-larks  and  cosy  thatched  cottages  were 
combining  in  the  merriest  of  madrigals  on  the 
beauty  of  Old  England. 

Upstairs,  in  "The  Plough  and  Crown,"  Pip- 
pa's  toilet  was  being  superintended  by  the  es- 
timable proprietress,  whose  hospitality,  sur- 
mounting the  difficulty  of  language,  poured  out 
in  a  stream  of  garrulity. 

She  described  to  her  little  guest  how  Mr.  Jacob 
Wilson  first  appeared  in  kilts,  causing  her  (Mrs. 
Jacob  Wilson)  to  throw  her  apron  over  her  face 
and  bid  her  lord  and  master  go  upstairs  and  clothe 
himself  in  propriety.  She  further  confessed  that 
he  was  a  poor  correspondent  (though  a  man  of 
deep  intellect,  for  he  was  given  to  long  spasms  of 
silence)  ;  but  every  time  he  wrote  from  the 
trenches,  which  was  once  a  month  (though  one 
month  he  had  written  twice,  but  in  September — 
or  was  it  October? — he  had  not  written  at  all) 
— at  any  rate,  he  always  said  that  he  had  a  cold  in 
his  head  and  would  she  send  his  medicine,  which 
he  had  used  for  eight-and-twenty  years,  and 
which  had  never  failed  to  cure  him. 

After  this  testimony  to  Mr.  Jacob  Wilson's 
241 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

recuperative  powers,  despite  his  susceptibility  to 
colds,  his  wife  became  confidential,  and  told  the 
girl  of  the  adoration  showered  on  her  during  her 
honeymoon  by  the  aforesaid  absent  gentleman, 
together  with  other  and  romantic  details  which, 
being  told  in  the  strictest  confidence,  naturally 
have  no  place  in  these  pages. 

And  the  little  girl  from  the  Picardy  mill-house 
listened.  She  may  have  understood  that  some- 
where in  the  landlady's  bountiful  breast  a  noble 
heart  was  beating,  that  behind  her  cheerfulness 
lay  the  shadow  of  the  trenches,  and  that  any  mo- 
ment "The  Plough  and  Crown"  might  be  robbed 
of  the  good  man  who  had  marched  away  with  the 
London  Scottish. 

She  may  have  understood  less  than  that — or 
more.    Who  knows? 

Half-an-hour  later  the  Airy  Prince  returned, 
and  they  sat  down  together  to  a  breakfast  served 
to  the  tune  of  chortling  fowls  and  the  neighing  of 
a  nearby  horse,  while  the  fire  chuckled  and 
crackled  in  enjoyment  of  some  joke  of  its  own. 

"Well,  Pippa,"  said  the  Black  Cat,  seizing  a 
moment  when  Mrs.  Jacob  Wilson  had  absented 

242 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

herself  from  the  room,  "and  what  do  you  think 
of  the  English?" 

The  girl  of  the  mill-house  pictured  the  only- 
two  she  had  met. 

"I  think,"  she  said  timidly,  "that  you  are — 
how  say  you  it — great  talkers,  yes?" 

"Bless  my  soul!"  said  he,  cutting  a  loaf  of 
bread  with  the  melancholy  of  an  executioner  be- 
heading an  esteemed  relative;  "aren't  we?" 

VIII 

The  train  for  London  came  round  the  bend, 
and  drew  up,  panting,  beside  the  platform.  The 
airman  and  his  little  companion  glanced  into 
four  compartments  which  were  completely  filled, 
and,  hearing  the  admonition  of  the  guard,  were 
forced  to  enter  a  first-class  carriage  containing 
five  occupants,  who  glared  at  the  intruders  v.ith 
that  triumph  of  rudeness  found  only  on  an  Eng- 
lish railroad. 

"Sorry,"  murmured  the  airman,  and  added 
something  unintelligible  about  the  train  being 
full.  A  fierce-looking  gentleman  looked  up  from 
the  Morning  Post  and  lowered  the  window  to  its 

243 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

fullest  extent.  An  anemic  woman  opposite 
sneezed  and  fixed  a  devastating  stare  on  the  fierce 
gentleman.  A  very  young  officer  of  the  Guards 
felt  his  lip,  and  stroked  that  portion  of  it  which 
was  pregnant  with  promise  of  mustache,  while 
his  mind  wandered  into  the  future.  Would  he 
cut  Lady  Dazzrymple's  beastly  dance,  and  con- 
tent himself  with  only  three  that  evening?  Or, 
dash  it  all!  should  he  go  the  whole  works?  What 
a  bore!  ...  A  young  woman  with  a  face  of 
deep  intensity  read  the  New  Statesman,  every 
now  and  then  looking  up  from  its  pages  (as  a 
horse  drinking  at  a  trough  will  raise  its  head  be- 
tween draughts),  apparently  defying  any  one  to 
challenge  her  on  anything. 

With  his  hands  lazily  in  his  coat-pockets,  an 
Australian  captain  leant  back  in  his  corner  and 
took  in  the  freshness  and  winsomeness  of  the 
French  girl,  with  an  admiring  frankness  that  in- 
spired sudden  doubt  in  the  airman's  mind  whether 
it  was  really  desirable  to  maintain  a  huge  Em- 
pire. 

For  ten  minutes,  in  a  funereal  silence,  the 
train  hurried  towards  the  Metropolis,  while  the 
temperature  of  the  compartment,  both  actually 

244 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

and  temperamentally,  dropped  to  freezing-point. 
Once,  as  an  unusually  pretty  meadow  met  her 
eye  (and  where  are  there  such  meadows  as  one 
sees  in  England?),  Pippa  emitted  an  exclama- 
tion of  delight  and  clapped  her  hands. 

A  look  of  horror  from  the  fierce  gentleman 
caromed  off  the  Morning  Post  to  the  face  of  the 
offender.  The  anemic  woman  stopped  blowing 
her  nose,  and  concentrated  all  her  energies  on  a 
disdainful  sniff.  The  very  young  Guardsman 
brought  his  eyes  out  of  the  future,  and  stared 
right  through  the  girl — rotten  form,  what !  The 
intense  young  woman  frowned  and  made  a  men- 
tal note  that  she  would  write  an  article  on  "The 
Girl  of  To-day" — or,  perhaps,  a  letter  to  the 
Nexo  Statesman  would  be  more  effective.  One 
never  knew,  these  degenerate  times,  if  an  author 
was  writing  from  conviction  or  merely  writing 
for  a  living. 

The  Australian  smiled  generously,  and  bur- 
rowed his  hands  deeper  into  his  capacious 
pockets. 

Very  timidly  the  erring  daughter  of  France 
shifted  closer  to  her  protector,  and  her  hand 
reached  appealingly  for  his,  which  caused  all  ej^es 

245 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

but  the  Australian's  to  disappear  like  the  legs  of 
a  troupe  of  Japanese  acrobats  from  a  cross-bar. 

"Your  JNIajesty "  she  said. 

"Hush,  Pippa.  You  must  call  me  just  'mon- 
sieur.' " 

"But  why?" 

"Well — you  see,  a  prince  is  very  important, 
and " 

"Then  that  is  why  these  people  are  so  solemn? 
They  know  you  are  a  prince,  yes?" 

The  airman  tapped  the  bridge  of  his  nose  medi- 
tatively.    "N-not  exactly,"  he  said. 

"But  they  are  so  sad." 

"They  are,"  he  agreed;  "but  my  countrymen 
sink  to  their  greatest  melancholy  when  they 
travel." 

"But  why,  monsieur?" 

"That,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  tell  you.  Perhaps 
traveling  on  a  train  reminds  them  of  the  brief 
journey  of  life  itself.  At  any  rate,  all  really  well- 
bred  people  who  travel  resent  others  doing  the 
same  thing." 

"What  are  well-bred  people?" 

He  gazed  at  an  advertisement  for  pyjamas. 

"Well-bred  people,"  he  said  sententiously, 
246 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

"are  those  who  base  their  superiority  on  such  in- 
tangible things  that  they  leave  nothing  on  which 
one  can  contest  it.    Do  you  understand  me?" 

"Xo,"  said  Pippa  frankly;  "but  I  like  your 
voice." 

"Thank  you,  little  one.  It  was  one  of  the  first 
things  I  learned  at  Harrow^ — to  say  something 
well  rather  than  something  worth  hearing." 

"I  wonder  if  Louis  had  his  breakfast,"  said 
she,  at  a  tangent. 

"I  think  so,"  he  said,  with  a  man's  vagueness 
towards  domestic  economy;  "but,  to  finish  my 
definition  of  well-bred  people " 

"Louis  will  be  angry  at  my  leaving  him,"  she 
said  musingly. 

"Pippa,  you  must  listen  to  me,"  he  said 
gravely. 

"But  may  I  not  talk  as  well?" 

"Really  charming  women  only  listen." 

"Tiens!  What  a  droll  country!  Do  these  peo- 
ple understand  what  we  say?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  youngster.  ]Most  British- 
ers look  on  foreign  languages  as  immoral." 

The  fierce  gentleman,  who  had  been  growing 
bluer    with    cold    every    minute,    suddenly    en- 

247 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

deavored  to  suppress  a  sneeze  by  smothering  his 
face  in  a  large  handkerchief,  with  the  result  that 
he  produced  a  combustive  cohesion  of  sounds, 
which  caused  a  gurgle  of  delight  from  the  miller's 
niece.  Violently  blowing  his  nose,  the  irate  one 
resumed  his  newspaper,  first  turning  his  coat- 
collar  about  his  ears  as  the  bracing  April  air 
blew  full  against  him,  and  looking  as  genuinely 
bad-tempered  as  his  somewhat  iromobile  features 
would  permit. 

"But  he  is  amusing,  is  he  not?"  cried  the  little 
French  girl,  then  shrank  back  as  the  New  States- 
manist  fixed  her  with  a  look  of  ineffable  and  dis- 
approving intellectuality.  "Monsieur,  why  is  it 
she  looks  at  me  so?'* 

The  aviator  transferred  his  scrutiny  from  py- 
jamas to  a  picture  of  Canterbury  Cathedral. 

"She  is  the  .New  Woman,"  he  said;  "and  all 
New  Women  resent  the  Old." 

"I  am  old?— but  no!" 

He  lowered  his  eyes  from  the  cathedral  to  her 
happy,  flushed  face. 

"Pippa,"  he  said,  "you  are  as  old  as  Cleo- 
patra." 

"Cleo-patra.    How  many  years  has  she?" 
248 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

"Oh,  about  two  thousand." 

She  pretended  to  be  offended,  and  ended  by 
looking  such  a  thoroughly  engaging  little  figure, 
with  her  dark  hair  and  innocently  intriguing 
eyes,  that  the  airman  resumed  his  study  of  archi- 
tecture from  sheer  self-defense,  and  the  Aus- 
tralian contemplated  the  odds  against  his  knockj 
ing  the  student  of  cathedrals  on  the  head,  and, 
a  la  caveman  of  old,  eloping  forcibly  with  the 
damsel. 

Chimney-pots!  Hundreds  of  them — thou- 
sands of  them. 

Chimney-pots!  Standing  like  regiments  in 
stiff  and  orderly  array,  waiting  for  a  review  that 
never  took  place. 

Chimney-pots!  Short  ones,  stout  ones,  crum- 
bling ones;  gray,  blue,  and  indigo  ones;  pots  of 
no  color  at  all,  and  just  as  little  character. 

Chimney-pots!  Racing  by,  mile  after  mile; 
industrious  fellows,  some  of  them,  puffing  out 
black  smoke  as  though  the  mist  over  London 
were  their  private  and  personal  concern. 

Chimney-pots ! 

"Waterloo!"  yelled  a  dozen  voices,  and  the  be- 
wildered Pippa  heard  a  stamping  of  feet,  a  rat- 

249 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

tling  of  trucks,  the  din  of  two  porters  in  a  semi- 
religious  discussion  concerning  the  right  of  way, 
the  din  being  aided  and  abetted  by  a  young  gen- 
tleman possessed  of  a  voice  which  had  recently 
broken,  who  howled,  alternately  in  a  deep  bass 
and  a  shrill  treble  (giving  the  general  effect  of 
a  Swiss  yodeler  running  amok),  that,  in  ex- 
change for  coin  of  the  realm,  he  was  willing  to 
barter  light  refreshment — very  light  refresh- 
ment indeed — in  the  shape  of  small  biscuits  or 
popular  magazines.  A  slim  girl  porter,  far  too 
weak  for  her  task,  dragged  a  trunk  from  the  van 
for  a  vigorous  indispensable,  who  stood  by  with 
sixpence  in  his  hand.  A  sailor  kissed  a  rosy- 
cheeked  woman  with  moist  heartiness.  ...  A 
taxi-driver,  outside  the  station,  took  a  sudden 
and  violent  dislike  to  a  horse-cabby,  casting  loud 
aspersions  on  the  latter's  respectabilitj^  and 
hinting  at  a  doubtful  pedigree;  to  which  the 
other  replied  simultaneously,  his  remarks  being 
quite  unintelligible,  but  apparently  giving  him- 
self the  greatest  personal  satisfaction.  Down  the 
road  a  street-piano  burst  forth  into  "The  Lost 
Chord." 

"Pippa,"  said  the  airman,  opening  the  door, 
250 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

"we  have  arrived.    The  Prince  with  the  Golden 
Key  welcomes  you  to  London." 

"Mon  Dieu,"  said  that  young  person,  "what  a 
noise!" 


IX 


It  was  nearing  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
when  the  airman  succeeded,  after  some  difficulty, 
in  piloting  his  little  companion  across  Piccadilly 
Circus  to  Regent  Street.  It  is  something  to  be 
noticed  in  that  most  cosmopolitan  of  districts,  but 
more  than  one  turned  to  watch  the  solemn  officer 
of  the  formidable  stride  and  the  French  girl  whose 
wealth  of  hair  and  length  of  dress  (barely  re- 
vealing her  ankles)  made  her  seem  a  vignette 
from  some  past  century  novel. 

It  had  been,  for  her,  a  dixy  of  wonders. 

From  her  lonely  little  world,  peopled  with 
make-believe  inhabitants,  she  had  been  trans- 
ported through  the  air  to  the  center  of  reality. 
London,  the  "Bagdad  of  the  West,"  huge,  mo- 
notonous, garish,  beautiful — what  term  is  there 
in  language  that  could  not  be  applied  to  that 
great    gathering     of    human     souls? — London 

251 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

sprawled  before  her  gaze  in  a  yellow  sunlight 
which  played  such  tricks  with  its  tired  buildings 
that  age-old  stone  looked  bright  and  cheerful, 
and  the  very  dust  seemed  like  the  coating  of  frost 
when  a  thaw  succeeds  a  freezing  night. 

Before  her  eyes  the  pageant  of  passions  passed 
in  endless  array.  Poverty  and  hypocrisy  rubbed  • 
shoulders  with  ostentation,  greed,  and  lust. 
Streets,  crowded  with  a  suffocating  similarity  of 
stodgy  dwelling-places,  gave  way  to  parks,  fra- 
grant with  the  atmosphere  of  romance.  Vice 
stalked  unashamed  through  the  thronged  streets, 
and  dull,  tired  faces,  leaving  monotony  in  their 
trail,  passed  their  next  of  kin  without  a  glance, 
those  to  whom  discouragement  had  come  as  some 
incurable  disease.  Sinister,  sensuous  eyes  looked 
into  hers,  and  children  pure  in  mind  as  snowflakes 
laughed  as  they  walked  beside  their  nurses. 

For  the  sun  was  in  the  heavens — and  the  same 
warmth  that  brings  the  beauty  of  a  narcissus  into 
being  gives  life  to  the  noisome,  crawling  things 
that  feed  on  decay. 

London's  costume  drama  was  at  its  height; 
uniformed  men  and  girls  paraded  in  their  thou- 
sands.     There     were     loose-limbed     Colonials, 

252 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

slouchily-smart  British  Tommies,  amazingly  seri- 
ous Americans ;  bus-girls,  land-girls,  girls  on  mo- 
tor-cycles, and  girls  driving  ambulances ;  graceful 
French  officers,  swarthy  Italians,  impassive  Jap- 
anese, and  ruddy-faced  British  sailors  seeking  a 
day's  diversion  from  the  sentry-go  of  the  sea. 

From  the  great,  throbbing  city  a  babel  of 
voices  rose,  like  the  sound  from  a  gigantic  mart; 
hurrying,  restless  vehicles  worried  their  way 
through  the  maze  of  traffic ;  Youth  with  its  care- 
lessness of  years  elbowed  Age,  waiting  with 
weakening  tread  the  call  of  the  Reaper  to  whom 
all  men's  lives  are  but  sands  that  run  their  little 
course.    Over  the  whole  city  brooded  the  Past. 

Take  all  the  comedies  of  the  centuries;  gather 
the  tragedies  of  history ;  piece  them  together  with 
the  fancies  of  a  madman's  brain — and  what 
could  they  offer  in  the  play  of  hmnan  emotions 
that  would  compare  with  one  hour  of  London's 
life? 

Thej^  had  gone  a  little  way  down  Regent 
Street  when  an  exclamation  of  delight  escaped 
from  the  girl. 

"Tieiu!"  She  caught  the  aii*man  by  the  arm. 
"PapaJoffrel" 

253 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

A  one-legged  man  with  outstretched  cap  was 
seated  on  the  pavement,  and  beside  him  were  five 
colored  drawings  vaguely  suggesting  men  of  the 
times. 

"But  he  is  wonderful,"  cried  the  girl.  "See — 
it  is  Papa  JofFre  himself!  Monsieur,  you  will 
give  him  a  little  present?" 

The  airman  presented  the  art-exhibitor  with 
half-a-crown,  receiving  a  gin-and-watery  blessing 
in  return,  as  they  strolled  on  their  way. 

"She's  the  fust  one,"  muttered  the  cripple,  pre- 
paring to  close  business  for  the  day,  "as  'as 
recognoized  that  there  dial  of  Juff 's  this  last  four 
month.  It  were  a  rotten  drawink  and  no  mistike. 
Blime !  I'll  give  that  cove  this  'arf -crown  to  draw 
me  a  picter  of  this  'ere  General  Fush  as  what  is 
getting  hisself  talked  abaht." 

He  saw  a  shadow  on  the  pavement  and  held 
out  his  cap.  A  Jewish  rabbi,  with  sallow  brow 
and  spiritual  face,  passed  without  a  glance,  his 
flowing  robes  oddly  reminiscent  of  the  Levite 
in  that  Past  to  which  the  age  of  London  is  mere 
immaturity. 

The  wanderers  turned  into  Pall  Mall,  and, 
traversing  it,  reached  the  Strand,  where  the  meet- 

254 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

ing  of  human  currents  forms  a  whirlpool. 
Threading  their  way  with  difficulty,  he  felt  the 
restraining  hand  on  his  arm,  as  he  had  done  two 
hundred  times  that  day.  The  girl  had  stopped 
opposite  a  hollow-eyed  old  woman  offering  vio- 
lets, from  her  seat  on  a  box,  to  the  thousands 
w^io  cared  as  little  for  her  flowers  as  for  her. 

Once  more  he  produced  the  inevitable  coin, 
and  again  received  a  blessing,  as  trembling,  un- 
lovely fingers  clutched  it.  He  was  about  to  turn 
away,  when  something  almost  attractive  in  the 
wrinkled  face  held  his  attention.  The  woman 
had  looked  searchingly  at  the  girl,  then  into 
his  eyes,  and,  touched  by  sudden  sympathy,  there 
was  a  faded  echo  of  comeliness  in  her  features 
that  came  and  went,  like  a  glow  caused  by  a 
breath  of  air  on  ashes  that  seemed  dead. 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  he  asked,  holding  the 
girl's  arm.     "Business  bad?" 

"Yes — yes,"  answered  the  woman  in  a  low, 
weak  voice ;  "but  it's  her  I'm  thinking  of.  Take 
care  of  her,  laddie,  won't  you?" 

The  girl,  unable  to  understand  them,  leaned 
over  and  smiled  into  the  wrinkled  face.  With  a 
little  air  of  embarrassment  Pippa  picked  half-a- 

255 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

dozen  violets  from  her  cluster,  holding  them  out 
to  the  woman,  who  took  them  with  strangely 
twitching  features,  just  as  an  encircling  current 
of  the  Strand  caught  them  in  its  grip  and  car- 
ried them  away. 

Although  they  had  rested  at  noon  in  a  quiet 
hostelry  in  Oxford  Street,  after  visiting  Kensing- 
ton Gardens  where  the  delightful  statue  of  Peter 
Pan  pleads  for  belief  in  fairies,  it  was  obvious  that 
the  strain  of  countless  impressions  was  begin- 
ning to  bring  fatigue  to  his  charge.  Accordingly 
the  airman  paused  in  the  doorway  of  a  theater 
and  drew  her  away  from  the  traffic's  turmoil. 

"It  is  three- thirty,"  he  said,  "and  there  is  a 
performance  inside." 

Her  eyes,  which  still  held  their  tenderness  for 
the  woman  of  the  flowers,  sparkled  happily. 

"That  is  delightful  monsieur.  Is  it  a  play  as 
I  read  in  my  books?" 

"Alas,  Pippa!  there  are  no  more  plays — only 
revues." 

"But  there  is  music?" 

"There  is  an  orchestra." 

"It  will  be  droll,  monsieur?" 

"I  doubt  it,  little  one;  but  we  shall  see." 
256 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

Purchasing  tickets  from  a  lordly  being  in  a 
cage,  they  entered  the  theater,  where  a  huge 
audience  was  rocking  with  laughter  at  the  three 
hundred  and  sixteenth  performance  of  Oh  Aunt! 
Thej''  took  their  seats  just  in  time  to  hear  the 
best  of  a  scene  between  two  comedians  who,  lest 
the  subtlety  of  their  wit  be  lost,  were  talking  at 
the  top  of  their  lung-power,  pulling  chairs  from 
underneath  one  another,  colliding  frequently, 
and  every  now  and  then,  to  emphasize  some  point, 
kicking  each  other. 

Several  minutes  passed,  and  wonderingly  the 
French  girl  gazed  at  the  pair,  while  the  melan- 
choly of  her  escort's  face  reached  an  intensity 
that  threatened  tears. 

"Monsieur." 

He  inclined  his  face  towards  hers. 

"Monsieur — they  are ?"  She  did  not  com- 
plete the  sentence,  but  her  shoulders  conveyed 
her  meaning. 

He  smiled  sadly.    "They  are,"  he  said. 

She  sighed  sjTnpathetically.  "Poor  gentle- 
men!" she  murmured. 

After  that  the  comedians  sang  a  duet,  the 
words  of  which  dealt  with  marital  infidelity,  that 

257 


? 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

screamingly  funny  subject  on  which  the  stage 
of  to-day  builds  its  humorous  efforts.  Once  the 
verse  ended  with  an  innuendo  so  crude  that  a 
gathering  of  navvies  might  have  resented  it. 

There  was  a  laugh  and  a  gasp  from  the  au- 
dience— then  wild  applause;  the  song  could  not 
go  on  for  the  riot  of  appreciation.  One  of  the 
comedians  (who  had  sung  it  only  three  hundred 
and  fifteen  times)  tried  to  commence  the  next 
verse,  but  was  suddenly  overcome  with  laugh- 
ter himself.  The  guffaws  became  a  barrage; 
then,  as  the  other  singer  turned  abruptly  about, 
his  shoulders  heaving  convulsively,  the  din  grew 
to  drum-fire  and  was  deafening.  How  richly 
humorous !  It  was  really  too  much !  People  held 
their  sides  and  gasped  for  breath. — "Have  you 
seen  Oh  Aunt?  My  dear,  it  is  too  killing  for 
words." 

Up  in  the  gallery  one  man  sat  with  an  unsmil- 
ing face.  He  was  a  wounded  Tommy  who  had 
been  blown  from  a  ditch  to  the  top  of  a  barn,  and 
from  the  barn  to  another  ditch.  He  had  had  his 
fill  of  slapstick  comedy. 

When  the  song  was  over  there  were  shrieks 
of   forced,   girlish   laughter,    and   nearly   forty 

258 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

yoimg  women  in  various  stages  of  dishabille 
rushed  on  the  stage,  exhibiting  to  a  critical  au- 
dience the  charms  and  the  defects  of  their  forty 
individual  forms.  The  producer  had  been  both 
daring  and  sparing.  He  was  a  second-rate  bur- 
lesque manager  in  New  York,  but  London,  that 
great  haven  for  American  mediocrity,  recognized 
his  genius,  and  gave  him  a  chance.  He  knew  the 
value  of  a  chorus,  and  how  to  get  the  best  out  of 
them — oh,  he  knew  I 

"Monsieur." 

The  officer  turned  slowly  and  looked  at  the 
girl  beside  him.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  her 
eyes  stared  at  the  ground. 

"Yes,  little  one?" 

"Please — take  me  away." 

Without  questioning  her  further,  he  reached 
for  his  cap,  and  amid  the  wondering  glances  of 
the  people  around,  they  left  the  theater.  He 
paused  in  the  foyer  and  put  on  his  gloves. 

"I  am  sorry,  Pippa,"  he  said  gravely. 

Her  hand  stole  soothingly  into  his  arm,  and 
both  of  them,  unknown  to  each  other,  experi- 
enced a  feeling  that  he  was  the  younger  of  the 
two.     After  all,   every  woman   is   a  potential 

259 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

mother,  and  men  are  only  boys  grown  serious; 
so  she  comforted  him  with  the  touch  of  her  hand, 
and — perhaps  it  was  the  natural  contraction  in 
putting  on  the  glove — his  arm  pressed  hers  tight 
to  his  side. 

And  though  he  was  a  man,  he  understood.  It 
is  not  precept  or  preaching  that  teaches  it.  Mod- 
esty in  a  girl  is  instinctive;  and  the  little  lady 
from  the  mill-house  had  known  no  other  teacher 
than  instinct. 

Outside  the  theater  an  attendant  was  chang- 
ing the  performance  number  of  Oh  Aunt!  from 
316  to  317. 


X 


Twenty  minutes  later,  in  the  large  tea-rooms 
of  a  fashionable  hotel  just  off  the  Strand,  there 
was  a  murmur  of  interest  as  a  flying-officer, 
quizzically  dejected  of  countenance,  entered  with 
a  young  lady,  who  glanced  shyly  about,  and 
whose  fingers  held  his,  timidly  but  confidingly. 

He  secured  a  table,  and  ordered  tea  from  a 
pleasant  waitress.  This  accomplished,  he  said 
something  to  his  companion,  who  was  sitting  bolt- 

260 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

upright,  keeping  a  steady  gaze  on  her  hands 
crossed  on  her  lap.  Smiling  a  little,  she  slowly 
raised  her  face  and  looked  into  his.  A  young 
Canadian  subaltern,  seated  at  a  table  with  a 
woman  whose  overpowdered,  meaningless  beauty 
was  only  too  eloquent,  stopped  in  some  remark 
he  was  making.  Something  in  the  French  girl's 
face  had  sent  his  mind,  smitten  with  loneliness, 
speeding  across  the  Atlantic  to  a  home  whence 
a  mother  and  a  sister  had  sent  the  finest  thing 
they  had  across  the  seas. 

Near  them,  two  girls,  fresh  of  face,  tittered 
and  posed,  challenging  the  eyes  of  every  man  who 
entered,  with  a  brazen  immodesty  strangely  at 
variance  with  their  appearance  of  decent  breed- 
ing. At  a  farther  table  a  young  woman,  with  a 
beauty  that  was  marred  by  too  hard  a  mouth,  sat 
with  her  mother  and  listened  to  that  woman's 
urging  that  she  should  marry  a  wealthy  Jew  who 
had  asked  for  her  hand.  Was  it  not  her  duty  to 
herself  and  to  her  mother?  Besides,  even  if  that 
j^oung  fellow  did  come  back  uncrippled  from  the 
trenches — which  was  unlikely — he  would  have  to 
begin  all  over  again.  Alone,  a  good-looking  ar- 
tist, discharged  from  the  army  with  wounds,  sat 

261 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

with  an  insouciant,  mocking  eye,  searching  for 
types  and  adventure.  Around  him  women  of  all 
ages,  some  of  them  with  men,  smoked,  while  their 
chatter  mixed  discordantly  with  the  orchestra 
playing  some  negroid  ragtime  piece,  and  with  the 
sound  of  rattling  tea-cups. 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  the  miller's  niece,  re- 
lapsing into  her  former  style  of  address,  "there  is 
so  much  I  cannot  understand." 

"Such  as  what,  youngster?" 

"These  ladies  here.     Some  are  so  pretty  and 

so  nice.    Others  are  pretty  and "    Again  she 

shrugged  her  shoulders  as  only  a  French  woman 
can.  "I  am  so  young,  it  is  true — but  see  that 
lady  there." 

"With  the  young  Canadian — yes?" 

"Somehow,  monsieur,  she  frightens  me.  I  did 
not  know  that  women  ever  looked  that  way — 
like  Louis  when  he  catches  a  mouse." 

"The  simile  is  very  apt,  Pippa." 

"But  then" — her  brows  puckered  with  a  first 
endeavor  to  harness  language  to  her  psychology 
— "you  can  see  that  nice  girl  there,  so  fair  and 
pink." 

262 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

"I  prefer  them  dark,"  said  he  seriously;  "but 
what  of  her?" 

The  expounder  of  philosophy  breathed  deeply, 
but  stuck  to  her  task. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  the  fair  girl  is  nice, 
but  this  one  is  .  .  ."  (shrug)  .  .  .  "Then  why, 
monsieur,  does  the  nice  one  try  to  look  just  like 
the  other? — Regardez-moi  pa — see  her  now." 

He  poured  out  the  tea,  which  had  just  arrived. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  a  story?"  he  asked. 

She  sighed  happily.  "Tell  me  a  true  story," 
she  said  with  that  insistence  of  the  young  on 
making  all  things  believable. 

He  sipped  his  tea  and  frowned  meditatively. 

"Not  long  ago,  my  dear,  there  lived  a  stupid 
king." 

"Your  father?" 

"In  any  one  but  you,  Pippa,  that. would  be 
pert.    No,  he  was  not  my  father." 

"I  wonder  if  Louis "  she  began,  but  he 

checked  her  with  a  portentous  frown. 

"Once,"  he  began  again,  "there  lived  a  stupid 
king  named  Convention." 

"What  a  silly  name!" 

263 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Pippa!"  he  admonished  her  with  a  warning 
finger. 

She  tried  to  look  serious,  but  ended  by  laugh- 
ing mischievously. 

"There  was  a  stupid  king  with  a  silly  name?'* 
she  said  encouragingly. 

"TJhis  king,"  he  said,  "was  very  wise  in  some 
things,  and  often  kind,  but  his  courtiers  were  a 
poor  lot — Hypocrisy,  Snobbery,  Good  and  Bad 
Form,  and  a  lot  of  others.  Now  the  king  used  to 
favor  the  men  among  his  subjects." 

"You  mean,  he  liked  men?" 

"Yes." 

"So  do  I,"  she  said  in  an  outburst  of  frank- 
ness.    "They  are  so  droll." 

He  poured  some  fresh  tea  into  the  cups. 

"This  King  Convention,"  he  said,  after  a 
thoughtful  pause,  "said  that  men  could  do  a  lot 
of  things  that  women  could  not,  which  made  the 
women  very  angry.  Now  the  king  had  a  jester 
named  Shaw." 

"What  is  a  jester?" 

"A  man  who  makes  jokes  that  people  may 
laugh." 

"Why  do  they  laugh  at  jokes?" 
264 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

"Well,  in  England — especially  on  the  stage — 
it  is  from  the  pleasure  of  meeting  old  friends. 
As  a  race,  we  are  rather  sentimental  about  our 
jests,  and  don't  take  kindly  to  new  ones." 

She  sipped  some  tea,  holding  the  cup  in  both 
hands,  but  with  considerable  daintiness. 

"Tell  me  an  English  joke,"  she  said. 

He  stroked  his  faded  little  mustache. 

"The  House  of  Lords,"  he  ventured,  after 
some  thought. 

''He!    Is  that  funny?" 

"Very." 

"I  do  not  laugh.    Tell  me  another." 

He  broke  a  corner  off  a  piece  of  toast. 

"One  of  the  richest  bits  of  humor  in  England," 
he  said,  "is  the  idea  that  children  born  into 
wealthy  or  titled  families  are  superior  clay  to 
their  fellows." 

Pippa  thought  tremendously. 

"I  think,  monsieur,  I  know  why  you  look  so 
sad.  It  is  because  of  what  you  have  to  laugh  at 
in  your  country.  .  .  .  But  please  go  on  and  tell 
me  what  happened  to — how  say  you  it? — the 
jester." 

"Ah  yes.    Well,  G.  B.  Shaw " 

265 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"What  is  this— G.B.?" 

"Those  are  his  names — Gor'  Bhme  Shaw." 

Pippa  sighed.  It  was  very  difficult  to  become 
interested  in  people  of  such  strange  nomencla- 
ture. 

"What  did  he,  then,  this  Gor  Shaw?"  she 
asked,  feeling  that  the  story  must  end  sometime. 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  rather  a 
poor  jester,  because  his  only  joke  was  to  stand 
on  his  head.  At  first  every  one  laughed;  but 
after  a  while  they  thought  that  it  was  his  natural 
position,  and  paid  no  attention  to  him.  It  was 
really  pretty  hard  on  the  poor  chap,  because  he 
was  too  old  to  learn  any  new  tricks,  and  he  used 
to  become  dizzy  from  being  upside-down  so  much. 
Finally  he  grew  furious  at  the  king  for  not  laugh- 
ing, and  urged  all  the  women  who  did  not  like 
Convention  to  murder  him.  When  the  war  came 
along  they  saw  their  chance.  The  men  went 
away,  and  the  real  women  of  England  were  too 
busy  helping  them  to  bother  about  anything  else. 
You  see,  Pippa,  in  our  country  we  have  the  noisy, 
chattering,  selfish  women  who  do  good  by  lime- 
light and  find  their  reward  in  the  illustrated 
journals.     But  there  are  also  those,  the  unrec- 

266 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

ognized  and  unthanked  ones,  who  share  others' 
griefs,  but  suffer  alone.  It  is  the  unseen,  un- 
heard women  of  Britain  who  are  really  wonder- 
ful." 

The  girl  said  nothing,  but  her  face,  so  sugges- 
tive of  color  in  its  elusive  change  of  expression, 
softened  to  a  tender  mood  that  left  her  eyes 
very  dark  and  somber,  and  her  lips  curved  slight- 
ly into  a  smile  that  was  full  of  sympathy. 

The  young  Canadian  subaltern  looked  direct- 
ly at  her  and  compressed  his  lower  lip  with  his 
teeth. 

"What's  the  matter,  dearie?"  croaked  the 
woman  beside  him;  but  he  returned  no  answer. 

The  two  tittering  girls  stopped  their  staccato 
giggling  for  a  moment,  then  resumed  with  a 
steadfastness  of  purpose  that  somehow  robbed 
the  effect  of  spontaneity.  The  young  woman 
with  the  over-firm  mouth  took  in  the  tableau  of 
the  airman  and  his  little  charge,  and  turned  to 
her  mother  with  some  sarcastic  comment  that  was 
strangely  belied  by  the  look  of  hunger  in  her  eyes. 
The  artist,  still  with  his  air  of  graceful  insou- 
ciance, sat  with  half-closed  eyelids  and  visualized 
Pippa  as  a  subject  for  canvas.    ''What  a  Psyche 

267 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

she  WQ;uld  make!"  he  muttered.  The  orchestra 
was  just  going  to  play,  when  the  leader,  who 
had  been  idly  gazing  at  the  throng  of  guests, 
made  a  gesture  of  dissent. 

"We  shall  not  do  'Oh,  that  Opium  Rag,'  "  he 
said.  "You  see  that  girl  there,  with  the  dark 
curls  and  the  sweet  little  face?  For  her  let  us 
play  Mendelssohn's  'Spring  Song.'  " 

Quite  unaware  of  their  interested  audience, 
the  flying-man  and  his  companion  continued  their 
excursion  into  the  realm  of  fables,  while  un- 
touched toast  and  half-emptied  cups  stood  by  in 
neglected  array. 

"That  is  practically  all  the  story,"  he  said. 
"When  the  war  came  on,  they  murdered  poor 
old  Convention." 

"Oh!" 

"Slaughtered  him,"  he  said  gloomily;  "though 
all  his  bad  courtiers  escaped.  For  a  long  time 
it  was  feared  that  the  king's  son.  Courtesy,  and 
his  niece.  Charm  (who  were  very  much  in  love 
with  each  other),  had  also  been  done  to  death, 
but  there  are  rumors  that  they  have  been  seen 
in  remote  parts  of  England.     So,  Pippa,  that 

268 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

is  why  these  young  women  look  and  act  alike. 
They  are  the  murderers  of  Convention." 

"Monsieur,  I  am  frightened." 

He  produced  his  pipe,  received  a  horrified  look 
from  a  gorgeous  waiter,  and  hurriedly  replaced  it 
in  his  pocket.  "The  first  thing  the  women  did," 
he  went  on,  "was  to  place  Vulgarity  and  his 
Queen,  Stupidity,  on  the  throne;  but  there  are 
signs  that  their  reign  will  be  brief.  When  the 
men  come  back  and  the  quiet  women  speak,  I 
think  we  shall  see  another  Revolution  that  will 
put  Courtesy  and  Charm  in  the  place  of  Vul- 
garit}"  and  Stupidity.  So,  after  all,  my  dear" — 
he  grew  quite  cheerful  at  the  thought — "poor 
old  Shaw  may  have  done  some  good  in  inciting 
the  murder  of  Convention.  Perhaps,  ^iiough  the 
thought  would  annoy  him  frightfully,  he  may 
yet  go  down  to  history  as  a  martyr — the  reformer 
who  stood  on  his  head!" 

But  she  was  not  listening  to  him.  She  was 
silently  enjoying,  for  the  first  time,  the  fragrance 
of  ^lendelssohn's  Melody  of  Spring,  which 
found  immediate  response  in  her  nature,  so  at- 
tuned to  the  delicate  things  of  life.  It  had  a 
somewhat  contrary  effect  on  the  others,  whose 

269 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

conversation,  which  had  begun  to  lag,  took  on 
fresh  impetus  with  the  sound  of  the  orchestra. 

"Tell  me,"  she  whispered,  vastly  puzzled,  "why 
do  they  talk  so  loud  when  there  is  music?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know,"  he  an- 
swered. "It  is  said  that  music  soothes  the  savage 
breast — it  certainly  loosens  the  civilized  tongue." 

The  charming  setting  to  the  happiness  of 
Spring-time,  written  by  a  composer  who  really 
never  grew  up,  came  to  an  end,  and  in  sheer 
delight  the  French  girl  clapped  her  hands  twice. 
The  leader  acknowledged  the  compliment  by 
bowing.  She  did  not  know  that  it  was  for  her 
alone  he  had  chosen  it. 

The  airman  examined  his  watch.  "Little 
one,"  he  said,  "I  am  afraid  our  day  is  nearly 
over.  In  half-an-hour  we  must  catch  a  train 
back  to  'The  Plough  and  Crown,'  where  we  shall 
have  dinner  and  a  little  rest.  At  eight  o'clock 
two  friends  of  mine  from  the  aerodrome  here 
will  bring  the  machine — you  understand  that 
taking  young  ladies  from  France  to  England  has 
not  been  officially  authorized  by  the  Air  Minis- 
try. As  soon  as  the  stars  are  out  we  shall  start 
for  home." 

270 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

They  rose  to  go. 

She  smiled  shyly  at  the  orchestra,  and  once 
more  the  leader  bowed.  With  the  daintiest  of 
gestures  she  raised  her  hand  and  waved  to  him; 
then,  feeling  for  her  protector's  arm,  she  started 
for  the  door,  her  eyes  timidly  glancing  about  her 
from  beneath  sheltering,  downcast  eyelashes. 
Without  the  least  embarrassment,  the  tanned 
airman  with  the  strangely  light  moustache  and 
eyebrows  walked  beside  her,  experiencing  an  in- 
definable sense  of  possession  that  proved  most 
agreeable. 

The  artist  toyed  with  an  unlit  cigarette.  "With 
such  a  model,"  he  muttered,  "if  I  could  only 
indicate  that  swift  rhythm  of  expression,  I  should 
be  great." 

The  tittering  girls  kept  up  their  chatter.  They 
had  long  since  learned  that  nothing  stifles  thought 
like  meaningless  conversation — and  they  were 
afraid  their  thoughts  might  be  unpleasant. 

The  young  woman  with  the  over-firm  mouth 
drew  back  as  the  airman  and  his  companion 
passed  her  table,  but  her  ej^es  clung  to  the  French 
girl's  face  as  though  its  winsomeness  and  purity 
held  the  answer  to  her  troubles.    Swift  as  imag- 

271 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

ination  itself,  her  mind  leaped  to  France,  pic- 
turing a  young  fellow  who,  if  he  did  come  back 
unmaimed,  would  have  to  begin  all  over  again. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  with  hot  resentment  in  her 
voice,  "I  am  entitled  to  my  own  life.  I  have 
seen  too  many  tragedies  in  material  marriages 
to  dread  one  of  love." 

"You  are  a  fool,"  said  the  other;  and  because 
she  was  the  stronger  of  the  two,  she  prevailed. 

The  woman  who  looked  as  Louis  did  when  he 
caught  a  mouse  turned  on  the  Canadian  boy, 
who  had  followed  Pippa  with  a  far-away,  dreamy 
stare. 

"What's  the  matter,  dearie?"  she  queried,  with 
the  tedious  endearment  of  her  class. 

He  brought  himself  from  the  reveries  that  had 
strangely  blended  the  French  girl's  face  with  the 
faces  of  two  other  women  across  the  sea;  then 
he  looked  into  his  companion's  with  its  leering 
comeliness.  With  a  quick,  decisive  movement  he 
rose  to  his  feet,  and,  feeling  for  his  pocket-book, 
placed  a  pound-note  on  the  table. 

"Pay  for  what  we've  had,"  he  said,  his  jaw 
stiffening,  but  his  voice  shaking  oddly. 

"What!  aren't  I  going  to  see  you  again?" 

272 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

He  was  going  to  speak,  but  changed  his  mind, 
and,  turning  on  his  heel,  strode  from  the  place, 
his  spurs  jingling  with  each  step  .  .  .  and  there 
was  something  in  his  face  that  made  people  keep 
silent  as  he  passed. 


XI 


It  lacked  two  hours  of  midnight  when  an  aero- 
plane crossed  the  Channel. 

With  his  feet  automatically  guiding  the  rud- 
der and  his  eyes  keeping  incessant  watch  on  his 
compass  and  the  pulsating  lights  of  landing 
points  showing  like  lighthouses  at  sea,  the  Black 
Cat  brought  all  his  conscious  mind  to  bear  on 
the  events  of  the  day. 

In  the  whim  of  the  moment,  when  the  rain 
was  on  the  roof,  he  had  suggested  this  adventure 
to  the  little  girl  of  the  lonely  mill-house ;  and  for 
one  day  London  had  been  hers.  He  had  carried 
out  his  plan.  Her  countless  comments,  some 
childish,  some  strangely  mature,  were  evidence 
enough  of  her  enjoyment.  Then  why,  he  ques- 
tioned, was  he  experiencing  a  dull  feeling  of  de- 
pression, as  the  shadows  beneath  showed  that 

273 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

once  more  they  were  over  France?  To-morrow 
he  would  have  the  zest  of  battle ;  again  he  would 
lead  his  squadron  in  the  greatest  sport  of  the 
ages.  .  .  .  Then  why  this  heaviness  of  spirit? 

His  mind  relapsed  into  a  musing  mood  that  got 
him  no  further  in  his  introspective  analysis ;  and 
his  eyes,  which  had  always  been  a  reliable  pair, 
commenced  playing  odd  tricks  with  him.  Though 
in  the  daytime  he  was  used  to  seeing  the  earth 
and  the  horizon,  and  thus  establishing  his  esti- 
mate of  distance,  he  was  relying  that  night  almost 
entirely  on  his  sense  of  equilibrium,  glancing  only 
occasionally  at  the  instruments  which  would  tell 
him  if  he  were  not  flying  level. 

It  was  the  compass  that  first  surprised  him. 

He  was  studying  its  sensitive  needle  when  he 
noted  with  some  astonishment  that  the  dial  had 
taken  on  the  addition  of  two  dark  and  most 
expressive  eyes,  which  proceeded  to  surround 
themselves  with  the  delicate  features  of  a  girl's 
face,  possessed  of  a  brow  that  was  spiritually 
white,  and  dark  hair  that  melted  into  the  black- 
ness of  the  night. 

He  shook  his  head  and  sought  a  light  on  the 
ground,  which,  after  the  manner  of  "Winking 

274 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

Willies,"  was  showing  long  and  short  flashes  like 
Morse.  To  his  amazement,  the  light  became  a 
smile,  which  gradually  developed  into  a  most 
alluring  female  face.  If  he  had  been  in  posses- 
sion of  his  usual  sense  of  the  humorous,  he  would 
have  recalled  that  Lewis  Carroll's  cat  appeared 
to  Alice  in  much  the  same  way;  but  his  mind  and 
body  were  both  in  the  clouds,  a  realm  where 
cats  and  humor  are  uninvited  guests. 

He  next  tried  a  star,  which  underwent  the 
same  evolution.  Even  the  moon  was  not  proof 
against  the  phenomenon.  Once  he  half-closed  his 
eyes,  but  that  was  worse  than  ever.  Everywhere 
he  looked,  there  was  the  same  face — smiling, 
pouting,  coquetting,  sympathizing,  commiserat- 
ing. 

He  tried  whistling,  but  it  offered  no  relief. 

Behind  him,  nearly  asleep,  Pippa  sat  with 
closed  eyes.  To  her  the  solution  was  much  more 
simple.  All  day  she  had  had  her  Prince  by  her 
side,  her  arm  in  his,  her  fingers  locked  with  his. 
Therefore  she  was  happy;  also  she  was  tired. 

Not  having  any  tiresome  masculine  mental 
gyrations  to  perform  in  discovering  a  truth  that 
was  so  easily  apparent,  she  accepted  the  situa- 

275 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

tion  with  sentimental  nonchalance,  and  falling 
asleep,  dreamed  that  the  statue  of  Peter  Pan  in 
Kensington  Gardens  had  changed  to  that  of  the 
Airy  Prince  (who,  she  thought,  was  ever  so  much 
more  handsome) ,  and  that  she  was  sitting  on  the 
grass  admiring  him,  while  rabbits  played  about 
his  feet.  She  was  awakened  from  this  delightful 
dream  by  a  sensation  similar  to  that  of  falling  off 
a  ladder  in  one's  sleep ;  but  such  is  the  penalty  of 
those  who  travel  at  night  by  air. 

And,  applying  the  laws  of  logic  to  the  case, 
when  a  young  gentleman  sees  dark  eyes  and 
curved  lips  in  a  compass,  and  a  young  woman 
dreams  that  the  citizens  of  London  have  erected 
a  monument  to  a  young  gentleman  with  a  long 
face  and  glow-worm  eyebrows,  it  is  reasonable 
to  suppose  that  they  have  fallen  in  love  with 
each  other. 

But  strange  things  happen  in  the  month  of 
April. 

XII 

She  had  just  fallen  asleep  for  the  second  time, 
when  the  cessation  of  the  engines  woke  her,  and 

276 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

a  few  moments  later  they  had  descended  in  a 
field  adjoining  his  aerodrome. 

He  jumped  from  the  pilot's  seat  and  lifted  her 
out.  "Quick,  Pippa,"  he  said.  "They'll  be  here 
in  a  few  minutes  for  the  machine.  I  had  to  land 
here  because  that  light  was  my  only  guide.  Do 
you  see  that  heavy  tree  over  there  by  the  road? 
Wait  by  it  until  I  return  with  a  motor-cycle. 
Hurry,  youngster;  they're  coming." 

She  did  as  he  bade  her,  and  took  refuge  in  the 
shadow  of  a  huge  tree,  just  as  men's  voices  told 
her  the  mechanics  had  come.  The  rolling  of  dis- 
tant guns,  like  thunder  echoing  through  cavern- 
ous depths,  traveled  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  and 
left  her  heart  fluttering  from  a  sudden  contrac- 
tion of  pain.  For  one  day,  in  the  restful  meadows 
of  England  and  in  the  fascination  of  the  un- 
marred  City  of  Adventure,  she  had  forgotten 
France's  agony.  With  the  thought  came  a  sud- 
den bitterness. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  heard  him  coming  with 
a  motor-cycle,  to  which  a  side-car  was  attached. 
She  took  her  seat  in  the  car,  and  he  fastened  the 
rubber  cover  over  her  knees.   Then,  opening  the 

277 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

throttle,  they  sped  through  the  night  towards  her 
home. 

It  was  just  twenty  minutes  to  twelve  when 
they  reached  the  mill.  Hurrying  across  the  foot- 
bridge which  spanned  the  chute,  she  entered  the 
cottage  and  lit  the  lamp. 

"Louis!"  she  cried.     "Louis!" 

That  patient  feline  awoke  from  slumber  and 
stretched  in  the  most  blase  manner ;  but  his  little 
mistress,  gathering  him  in  her  arms,  pressed  her 
cheek  against  his  head,  asking  a  dozen  questions 
at  once,  to  which  he  deigned  no  replj^  other  than 
blinking  into  space  and  licking  his  chops,  as 
though  the  ways  of  women  were  beyond  him,  but 
'twere  best  to  let  them  have  their  own  way. 

The  airman  followed  her  in.  .  .  .  The  prevar- 
icating clock  continued  its  dilatory  march  of  time. 
Marshal  Joffre  was,  if  anything,  more  paternal 
than  before,  and  the  geranium-colored  table 
cover  lent  its  unsubtle  glow  to  the  scene. 

"Good-by,  Pippa,"  he  said. 

The  girl  stood  motionless,  and  there  was  a  quick 
stab  in  her  heart.  She  had  known  that  this 
moment  would  come,  but  had  kept  her  thoughts 
from  it  .  .  .  and  now  ...  he  was  going.  .  .  . 

278 


THK  AIRY  PRINXE 


Once  more  she  would  have  only  her  little  world 
of  make-believe.  She  released  the  cat  from  her 
arms  and  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"You  have  been  very  kind,  monsieur,"  she  said. 

He  fingered  his  helmet  absent-mindedly.  "Did 
you  enjoy  it?"  he  asked  aimlessly. 

"It  was  wonderful,"  she  said  quietly,  still  look- 
ing into  distance;  "I  have  seen  so  much.  This 
morning  I  was  just  a  little  girl,  but  now " 

His  fingers  ceased  turning  the  helmet,  and  he 
frowned  at  it  intently.  "We  do  not  grow  old 
with  years  but  by  moments,"  he  said.  "For  a, 
long  time  one  is  a  child;  then  there  comes  an 
instant  of  suffering,  or  of  love  .  .  .  and  one  is 
no  longer  a  child.     That  is  all." 

She  slowly  sank  into  a  chair  by  the  table,  and, 
folding  her  hands,  appeared  engrossed  in  the 
table  cover.  "Your  Majesty,"  she  said,  "do  you. 
remember  the  poor  lady  with  the  violets?" 

"Yes,  Pippa." 

"What  did  she  say  to  you?" 

He  smiled  awkwardly.  "It — it  is  rather  hard 
to  explain,  little  one.  She  told  me  to — to  take 
care  of  you." 

"Why  did  she  say  that?"  she  asked  without 
279 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

removing  her  eyes  for  a  moment  from  the  table. 

"Well — perhaps  you  do  not  know  this — but 
men  are  sometimes  very  unkind  to  women." 

"I  know,  monsieur.  Simon  Barit,  he  often 
beats  his  wife." 

He  sat  down  on  a  chair  opposite  her.  "There 
are  many  more  ways  of  being  cruel  than  that," 
he  said.  "Sometimes  a  kiss,  or  the  gift  of  a  flower, 
is  worse  than  a  blow.  Often,  Pippa,  men  play 
with  women's  hearts  as — well,  as  Louis  does  with 
a  spool." 

A  shadow  fell  on  her  face.  "I  think  I  under- 
stand, monsieur.  That  poor  lady  was  afraid  I 
should  fall  in  love  with  you,  but  that  you  would 
not  love  me." 

"That  is  partly  what  she  meant." 

Pippa  rose  and  walked  to  the  window.  "To- 
night I  think,"  she  said,  after  a  minute's  silence, 
"that  women  have  the  most  sorrow  in  life." 

"They  do,  httle  one." 

"But  also  the  most  joy,  monsieur." 

He  rested  his  chin  on  his  hand,  but  said  ncti  - 
ing. 

"All  to-day,"  resumed  the  girl,  "when  men 
seemed  happiest  it  was  because  they  were  with 

280 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

women.  Also  when  they  looked  most  cruel — 
you  perhaps  know  what  I  mean — there  were 
women  there  too  with  the  faces  that  frightened 
me.  And  all  those  lovely  children  playing  in  the 
park — always  they  seemed  so  merry  because 
their  mothers  were  near  them.  But  also,  you  re- 
member the  poor  soldier  in  the  chair? — no  legs 
and  but  one  arm.  His  face  was  so  sad  until  once 
the  lady  with  him — a  nurse,  you  said — spoke  to 
him  and  he  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  It  was 
lovely,  monsieur.     I  think  I  wept  a  little." 

He  made  no  comment,  but  his  left  hand  ran 
slow  arpeggios  on  the  table.  From  the  window 
she  could  see  the  water  of  the  chute,  all  silvery 
in  the  moonlight. 

"So  to-night,  monsieur,"  she  went  on,  "I  am 
not  the  same  as  this  morning.  Then  I  thought 
that  we  who  are  women  are  the  happiest;  but 
now  I  think,  in  the  real  world,  it  is  we  who  give 
pleasure  or  unhappiness.  Perhaps,  monsieur" — 
she  turned  around  and  faced  him — "perhaps  a 
woman  finds  joy  only  when  she  gives  it  to 
others." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  his  eyebrows  were  raised 
in  wonder.    When  he  had  said  we  grow  old  by 

281 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

moments,  was  it  more  than  just  a  well-turned 
phrase? 

She  returned  to  her  chair  by  the  table. 

*'When  Louis  and  I  are  alone,"  she  murmured, 
*'I  shall  not  dream  the  same  as  before.  Then 
we  had  only  young  people,  brave  and  hand- 
some, but  now  I  shall  pretend  that  there  are 
many  old  and  sad  ones,  who  perhaps  will  be 
glad  if  I  am  with  them.    And " 

"Pippa,  my  dear" — he  looked  into  her  eyes 
that  met  his  without  timidity,  and  there  was  a 
pleading  note  in  his  voice — "you  may  be  lonely 
here,  but  you  saw  to-day  how  many  discouraged, 
unhappy  people  there  are — how  much  sickness 
and  unkindness  there  is.  Keep  to  your  little  world 
here  with  its  Fairy  Princes  and  the  music  of  the 
wind.  It  is  better,  Pippa.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  is 
even  more  real  than  the  other." 

She  smiled,  patiently,  and,  for  the  second  time 
that  day,  felt  a  motherly  pity  for  his  youth- 
fulness. 

"Your  Majesty,"  she  said,  "in  my  book.  The 
Fairy  Prince,  the  girl  sings  a  song  about  love, 
and  she  asks  her  mother,  'Est-ce  plaisir,  est-ce 
tourment?'  I  know  now  that  it  is  both.    Ah!  I 

282 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

think  it  is  too  wonderful  to  be  a  woman ;  for  some 
day,  perhaps  yes,  perhaps  no,  I  shall  have  my 
own  children  and  a  husband  and  friends.  And 
sometimes,  when  my  husband,  he  is  much  discour- 
aged if  the  mill  makes  no  money,  though  he  works 
so  hard,  or  if  my  children  are  perhaps  sick  and 
cry — then  it  is  I  who  smile  and  say:  'Mes 
enf ants' — for  he,  too,  will  be  only  a  big  child — 
'Mes  enf  ants,  can  you  see  the  sunshine?  Do  you 
hear  the  birds?  Can  you  smell  these  flowers? — 
So!'  Et  alors — perhaps  they  smile  too.  So  I 
sing  a  pretty  song  and  say  to  my  husband  'Cour- 
age, mon  ami!  Have  you  not  your  little  wife?' 
And  after  that  we  are  all  happy.  .  .  .  And  now, 
that  is  why  I  think  it  is  so  wonderful  to  be  a 
woman." 

The  clock  hiccoughed,  and  struck  eight. 

The  airman  looked  at  his  watch.  "By  Jove, 
it  is  midnight!"  he  said.  "Pippa,  our  day  is 
over " 

Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes,  and  her  hands  groped 
for  his.  "But  no,  monsieur,"  she  cried,  "you 
must  not  go.    It  will  be  so  lonely." 

He  leaned  over  and  covered  her  little  hands 
283 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

with  his  large,  tanned  ones.     "It  will  be  lonely 
for  me  as  well,"  he  said. 

"But  you  will  come  back,  Your  Majesty?  Per- 
haps— next  Easter?" 

He  gently  stroked  her  hand.  "On  my  honor," 
he  said,  "I  will  come  on  the  Tuesday  at  dawn. 
You  will  be  there?" 

He  released  her  hands  as  she  slowly  rose  and 
crossed  once  more  to  the  window. 

"At  daybreak,"  she  said  very  quietly,  gazing 
at  the  steely  brilliance  of  the  running  water,  "I 
will  watch  from  the  hill.  And  if  you  do  not 
come,  though  I  shall  weep  a  little,  I  shall  say, 
'He  is  fighting,  and  could  not  leave  for  little 
Pippa.    Next  year  he  will  come.'  " 

"And  supposing,  little  one,  he  does  not  come 
the  next  year  either?" 

She  leaned  her  arm  against  the  window-pane 
and  rested  her  cheek  on  it.  "I  shall  watch  again 
at  dawn,  monsieur" — the  words  were  spoken 
very  slowly — "and  I  shall  say,  'He  is  not  com- 
ing. .  .  .  He  has  gone  to  be  with  his  brothers 
who  went,    out    into    the    sunlight,    smiling    so 

bravely ' " 

284 


THE  AIRY  PRINCE 

Her  words  ended  in  a  half-sob,  and  she  pressed 
her  face  with  both  hands. 

"But  every  Easter,"  she  said,  her  voice  very 
soft  and  trembling,  "on  the  Tuesday  I  will  watch 
the  dawn  from  the  hill,  and  perhaps,  monsieur, 
you  will  see  me." 

He  stood  motionless  for  a  moment,  slowly 
reached  for  her  leather  coat  and  helmet,  and 
placed  them  over  his  arm.  "Good-by,  Pippa," 
he  said,  and  he  held  out  his  hands. 

Timidly,  and  with  cheeks  that  went  all  white, 
then  crimson,  she  came  towards  him  and  raised 
her  face  for  him  to  kiss.  For  a  moment  he  held 
her  in  his  arms,  which  quivered  oddly.  .  .  .  Then, 
stooping,  he  gently  kissed  her — not  on  the  up- 
turned, trembling  lips,  but  on  the  cheek,  just 
beside  her  mouth. 

Without  a  word  he  gently  released  her  from 
his  arms,  flung  the  door  open  and  went  out  into 
the  night. 

Motionless,  with  the  burning  memory  of  his 
hot  lips  upon  her  cheek,  she  stood  until  the  sound 
of  his  footsteps  was  lost  in  the  song  of  the  chute. 
Slowly  her  hands  dropped  to  her  side  and  she 
sank  into  the  chair  by  the  table.    The  cat  looked 

285 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

up  from  the  task  of  licking  his  paws,  and  sprang 
upon  her  lap. 

"Louis!"  she  cried,  smothering  him  in  an  em- 
brace that  threatened  to  snufF  out  his  nine  lives 
prematurely,  while  tears  from  her  eyes  fell  glis- 
tening on  his  fur.    "Louis!" 


MR.   CRAIGHOUSE  OF  NEW 
YORK,  SATIRIST 


A  RAW  wind  from  the  sea  swept  against  the 
mammoth  building  of  the  New  York 
Monthly  Journal.  The  editor  of  that  classic  pub- 
lication stretched  his  arms  lazily,  then  crossed 
to  the  rattling  window  and  looked  at  Broadway, 
far  beneath.  A  few  belated  flakes  of  snow 
mingled  with  the  dust  that  eddied  about  in  little 
whirlpools  of  wind.  Like  gnomes,  the  people 
hurried  on  in  an  endless  diverging  torrent  of 
humanity,  slouch-hats  of  soldiers  adding  a 
strangely  Western  effect  to  the  usual  bizarre 
scene. 

The  telephone  rang,  and  the  editor,  Mr.  E.  H. 
Townsend,  left  the  window  to  answer  it. 

"Yes?"  he  said.  "Mr.  Craighouse?  Send  him 
right  in." 

He  took  from  a  drawer  a  box  of  notoriously 
287 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

expensive  cigars,  and  laid  it  on  his  desk.  The 
reasonings  of  Dr.  Watson  himself  could  hardly 
have  failed  to  deduce  that  the  visitor  was  of  some 
importance. 

A  moment  later  a  young  man,  in  the  uniform 
of  a  United  States  officer,  knocked,  and,  in  re- 
sponse to  the  invitation,  entered  the  inner  temple. 
Mr.  Townsend  offered  him  the  arm-chair,  and 
reached  for  the  cigars. 

"You  look  well  in  uniform,"  he  said,  after 
appropriate  comments  on  the  April  weather  had 
been  made  by  both. 

"Thanks.  I  received  your  note  this  morning 
asking  me  to  call." 

"Ah  yes.  By-the-by,  you  are  sailing  soon,  I 
believe?" 

"Any  time,  now;  naturally,  we  don't  know  to 
a  day." 

"What  branch  of  the  Service  are  you  with?" 

"The  Engineers." 

The  editor  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 
"That  is  odd,"  he  said.  "Did  you  know  anything 
about  engineering?" 

"A  little."  The  young  man's  voice  was  abrupt, 
but  not  unmusical.   His  brain  had  always  been 

288 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

alert,  and  army  training  was  making  his  voice 
so.    "I  was  a  science  grad.  at  Harvard." 

The  editor  gazed  out  of  the  window  again. 
"You  are  a  remarkable  combination,  Mr.  Craig- 
house,"  he  said.  "There  is  nothing  more  stifling 
to  the  artistic  nature  than  a  purely  scientific 
training;  in  fact,  the  influence  of  this  journal 
has  always  been  used  against  absolutely  technical 
schools.  Almost  the  first  requisite  of  any  artist 
is  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  intangible;  science 
deals  only  with  things  that  can  be  proved.  I 
often  nurse  along  a  young  writer  if  he  is  inco- 
herent because,  as  frequently  happens,  his  tem- 
perament is  greater  than  his  technique.  Scien- 
tists always  marshal  their  facts  well,  but  they 
never  soar  to  the  heights." 

The  editor  tapped  the  window  gently,  the 
young  officer  gazing  quizzically  at  him  the  w^hile. 
They  w^ere  a  strangely  contrasted  pair,  the  editor 
in  the  autumn  of  life,  with  the  calm  voice  and 
bearing  of  one  who  has  fastened  routine  to  art, 
and  become  jaded  in  the  process;  the  young  man 
keenly  alert,  with  eyes  that  never  lost  their  rest- 
lessness, and  thin,  satirical  lips  that  mocked  the 
high  forehead  of  a  philosopher. 

289 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"I  am  greatly  interested  in  your  writing,"  said 
the  editor,  after  rather  a  lengthy  pause. 

The  officer  smiled.  "Is  that  why  you  rejected 
my  last  two  manuscripts?" 

"Yes.  Neither  of  them  did  you  credit.  Both 
of  them  betrayed  rather  a  nasty  cynicism  in  your 
style." 

"I  meant  them  for  satire." 

"Ah!  there  is  a  great  difference.  Cynicism 
recoils  on  the  cynic;  satire  is  always  delightful, 
and  is  never  offensive.  However,  I  may  say,  in 
spite  of  their  faults,  if  you  survive  the  war  you 
should  become  one  of  America's  finest  writers." 

The  young  man  flushed  with  pleasure.  "Thanks 
very  much,  Mr.  Townsend." 

"You  have  temperament  and  you  have  lan- 
guage," went  on  the  editor,  "and,  though  your 
emotions  are  artificial  and  your  judgments  too 
impetuous,  that  is  a  natural  condition  of  youth — 
nature  has  to  keep  something  to  recompense  us 
for  growing  old.  But  you  have  big  moments, 
plus  some  most  promising  incoherency,  as  I  said 
before,  and  when  that  chaos  becomes  cosmos,  the 
world  will  acknowledge  you.  You  have  never 
been  to  England  before,  have  you?" 

290 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

The  officer  shook  his  head,  a  little  puzzled  at 
the  abrupt  descent  from  the  abstract. 

Mr.  Townsend  smoked  reflectively  for  a  full 
minute.  "England,"  he  said  slowly,  "is  the  j)ar- 
adox  of  the  ages.  In  America  we  have  the  pres- 
ent and  the  future;  England  has  the  present  and 
the  past — principally  the  past.  Inefficiency  is 
often  no  bar  to  success  there — as  a  matter  of 
fact,  an  Englishman  dislikes  appearing  efficient 
— but  remember  that  the  British  Navy  is  the  most 
thorough  organization  in  the  world.  I  have  often 
thought  that  England's  success  in  colonization 
was  largely  due  to  her  utter  inability  to  under- 
stand the  temperament  of  the  people  she  gov- 
erned. Look  at  Canada.  There  was  never  an 
Englishman  who  really  appreciated  the  restless 
independence  of  the  Canadian ;  yet,  when  the  Old 
Land  goes  to  war,  Canada  sends  and  maintains 
a  mighty  fine  army  corps  to  help  her.  Listen, 
my  boy.  I  want  you  to  go  to  England  with 
your  pores  open;  receive  impressions  and  make 
a  note  of  them.  I  want  a  series  of  articles  ex- 
plaining England  to  America — not  as  it  is  being 
done  by  those  polished  gentlemen  who  visit  us 
from  London,  but  by  an  American  for  Ameri- 

291 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

cans.  Don't  send  me  a  description  of  the  Strand, 
or  Westminster  Abbey,  or  your  thoughts  on  first 
seeing  the  Thames.  Go  deep.  I  want  a  series 
of  articles  that  rise  above  journalism.  I  want 
the  psychology  of  England  written  up  in  a  light 
satirical  vein  by  a  clever  man  with  red  blood  in 
his  veins.  You  will  be  there  for  some  time,  I 
suppose?" 

"Very  likely,  as  we  are  the  first  of  the  van- 
guard." 

A  half-hour  later  the  young  officer  rose  to  go, 
with  a  contract  that  promised  him  generous  re- 
muneration, in  return  for  which  he  had  agreed 
to  write  ten  articles  on  England.  He  stood,  fac- 
ing the  older  man,  and  smiled  slightly.  He  had 
removed  his  cap,  and  his  black  hair,  struggling 
into  an  unruly  curl,  combined  with  his  dark, 
brilliant  eyes  in  an  appearance  of  arresting 
virility. 

"You  are  very  encouraging,  Mr.  Townsend," 
he  said.  "I  had  no  idea  that  an  editor  could  be 
so — so  nearly  human." 

"My  son,"  said  the  older  man,  "we  are  litera- 
ture's midwives,  toiling  year  in  and  year  out  in 

292 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

the  hope  that  some  day  we  shall  assist  at  the 

birth  of  a  masterpiece." 

"But  how  is  it  that  you  don't  write  yourself?'* 
The  editor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Why  does 

a  hangman  never  commit  a  murder?"  he  said. 


II 


Three  weeks  later  a  great  ocean  liner,  known 
since  the  war  as  H.^I.  Transport,  No.  — ,  drop- 
ped gracefully  down  the  river  towards  the  open 
sea.  Craighouse,  from  the  hurricane-deck, 
watched  the  amazing  silhouette  of  New  York, 
as  her  mighty  buildings  stood  outlined  against 
the  darkening  skyline.  From  the  wharf  came 
the  strains  of  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  and 
hundreds  of  handkerchiefs  fluttered  in  farewell. 

A  British  cruiser  was  lying  at  anchor,  and  a 
thousand  bluejackets  roared  three  mighty  Brit- 
ish cheers  for  the  new  crusaders.  A  bedlam  of 
shouting  from  the  transport  acknowledged  the 
compliment,  and  one  American  soldier,  whose 
constant  attendance  at  baseball  matches  had  pro- 
duced stentorian  qualities  within  him,  boomed 
out  the  words,  "Good  old  Roast  Beef!" 

293 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Every  one  laughed.  Why  not?  Men  always 
laugh  readily  when  their  emotions  are  playing 
leapfrog  with  each  other. 

The  strains  of  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner" 
sounded  fainter;  the  handkerchiefs  were  blurred 
into  a  fluttering  white  cloud.  A  French  battle- 
ship lay  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  them.  As  they 
passed  it  a  bugle  sounded  on  board,  followed 
by  a  salvo  of  cheers  from  the  crew.  Craighouse 
noticed  that  the  French  cheers  were  a  full  third 
higher  in  pitch  than  the  British. 

Another  roar  came  from  the  transport,  and  all 
eyes  were  turned  towards  the  stentorian  private. 
He  took  a  deep  breath. 

"Good  old  Froggy!"  he  bellowed,  and  two  or 
three  soldiers  laughed.  To  America,  France  is 
the  martyr  of  the  ages,  and  there  is  a  strange 
sense  of  the  feminine  in  the  affection  which  the 
Old  World  republic  inspires  in  the  New.  Truly, 
the  ways  of  an  extempore  humorist  are  unhappy. 

They  passed  the  Battery,  and,  nearing  the 
open  sea,  received  the  blessing  of  the  Statue  of 
Liberty  extending  her  welcome  to  all  that  are 
weary  and  discouraged. 

Craighouse  experienced  a  thrill  of  patriotism, 
294 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

and,  feeling  that  he  must  express  it  in  language, 
turned  to  his  nearest  neighbor,  who  happened 
to  be  a  British  officer.  "That's  an  inspiring 
sight,"  he  said. 

"Which?"  said  the  Englishman  briefly. 

"The  Statue  of  Liberty,"  answered  Craighouse 
with  the  tone  of  a  4th  of  July  orator.  "That  is 
the  spirit  of  America — equality  for  all,  freedom 
of  thought  and  action,  liberty  for  every  one." 

"Oh  yes — splendid,"  commented  the  English- 
man politely. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then,  in 
a  burst  of  inexcusable  chauvinism,  Craighouse 
said,  "You  haven't  anything  like  that  in  Eng- 
land, have  you?" 

"No,"  said  the  English  officer  casually;  "but 
we  had  an  army  in  France  two  weeks  after  war 
was  declared.    I  say,  do  come  and  have  a  drink." 


Ill 


Three  months  later  the  editor  of  the  New 
York  Monthly  Journal  received  a  letter  from 
Craighouse.  Adjusting  his  glasses,  he  settled 
comfortably  into  his  chair  and  read  it. 

295 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"My  deae  Patron^ — I  hope  you  have  not 
been  disappointed  at  my  lack  of  articles,  but,  to 
be  candid,  I  have  not  struck  the  proper  mental 
balance  yet. 

"England  is  delightful ;  England  is  absurd.  I 
was  on  a  bus  yesterday,  and  the  conductress  gave 
the  signal  to  go  ahead  by  hammering  the  side 
with  the  fare-box.  It  fascinated  me.  Inci- 
dentally, the  girls  have  wonderful  complexions 
over  here,  but  they  do  not  dress  as  cleverly  as 
ours.  I  know  you  will  say  it  is  war-time,  but 
nothing  is  powerful  enough  to  interfere  with  any- 
thing so  fundamental  as  a  woman's  clothes."  ("A 
bit  labored,  but  quite  good,"  muttered  the  edi- 
tor.) 

"The  country,  as  you  know,  is  like  a  garden, 
with  all  a  garden's  charm  and  limitations.  I  don't 
feel  yet  that  I  can  take  a  deep  breath.  There 
are  woods ;  but  the  trees  seem  to  huddle  together 
for  want  of  space,  and  one  always  feels  that  just 
the  other  side  of  the  woods  there  is  a  town  or 
a  village.  England  is  lovely,  but  I  feel  the  lack 
of  immensity.  To  me,  the  whole  effect  is  that 
the  country  is  complete;  there  is  nothing  more 
to  do.     Everything  that  can  be  built  has  been 

296 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

built."  ^("And  well  built,  too,"  muttered  ISIr. 
Townsend.)  "In  fact,  I  don't  see  what  there  is 
over  here  to  employ  to  the  full  the  brains,  the 
nerves,  and  the  imagination  of  a  full-blooded 
homo.  Again  I  return  to  the  garden  simile.  Is 
the  task  of  maintenance  big  enough  for  the  splen- 
did specimens  of  manhood  that  England  rears? 

"I  feel  that  there  is  something  wrong  with  the 
public-school  system.  Not  that  it  is  inefficient, 
but  rather  that  it  is  too  thorough  in  its  results. 
Judging  superficially,  of  course,  it  seems  that  the 
public  school  ignores  the  fact  that  every  one  is 
born  an  individual,  and  proceeds  to  produce  a 
type.  To  use  a  vulgarism,  it  is  a  high-class  scho- 
lastic sausage-machine.  It  takes  in  variegated 
ingredients,  and  turns  out  uniformity  of  product. 
It  instructs  the  youth  of  the  land  in  the  manly 
virtues  of  past  ages,  but  appears  to  ignore  the 
-creative  instinct.  Public-school  men  are  the 
Greek  chorus  of  England's  national  drama ;  they 
seldom  provide  either  the  dramatist  or  the  prin- 
cipal actors. 

"My  biggest  disappointment  has  been  the 
English  stage.  I  know  our  'playsmiths'  are  futile 
enough,  but  we  would  never  endure  in  New  York 

297 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

what  is  put  on  at  many  first-class  London 
theaters.  At  a  time  when  her  grandsons  from 
the  four  corners  of  the  world  are  paying,  in  most 
cases,  their  first  visit  to  the  Old  Country,  Eng- 
land offers  them  the  spectacle  of  a  once  classic 
stage  given  over  to  inanity  and  vulgarity.  Of 
course,  there  are  two  or  three  producers  who 
still  maintain  a  commendable  standard  of  art, 
but  in  the  majority  of  first-class  London  theaters 
one  finds  a  coarseness  of  innuendo,  an  utter  lack 
of  refinement,  and  an  almost  total  elimination  of 
humor.  In  their  musical  shows  the  producers 
still  go  in  for  the  type  of  comedian  known  on 
Broadway  as  'hard-boiled' — the  kind  that  car- 
ries his  own  jests  in  a  valise,  and  whose  piece  de 
resistance  is  the  word  'damn,'  which  seldom  fails 
to  con\ailse  the  audience.  If  I  may  coin  a  phrase, 
I  would  say  the  aim  of  some  London  producers 
is  'to  be  vulgar  without  being  funny.'"  ("I 
wonder  if  that  is  original,"  observed  the  editor.) 
"I  like  the  restraint  of  the  better  English  news- 
papers, and  there  are  still  five  or  six  monthly 
journals  that  demand  a  high  standard  of  writing 
from  their  contributors.  Some  of  the  popular 
English  magazines,  however,  publish  stories  that 

298 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

would  hardly  pass  muster  as  a  blushing  school- 
girl's first  attempt  at  authorship.  I  remember 
my  mother  used  to  say  to  me,  'Out  of  nothing, 
nothing  comes.'  She  had  obviously  never  seen 
one  of  these  fiction  magazines. 

"Judging  by  the  advertisements  in  these  pub- 
lications and  in  the  society  illustrated  papers,  I 
would  say  that  manufacturing  women's  under- 
wear,  or  'undies,'  as  they  are  coyly  called,  is  the 
greatest  commercial  industry  here.  The  adver- 
tisements state  that  an  officer  can  send  a  lady 
a  complete  set  of  these  garments  with  his  regi- 
mental crest  on  them.  I  am  still  trying  to  gauge 
the  mental  attitude  of  an  officer  who  would  do  so. 

"The  political  situation  puzzles  me.  Lloyd 
George  looks  like  a  mighty  big  man,  but  he  has 
to  spend  most  of  his  time  dodging  snipers  from 
behind.  Nero  fiddled  while  Rome  was  burning, 
but  a  certain  section  of  the  House  of  Commons 
goes  in  for  absolute  symphonies  while  Britain  is 
locked  in  the  death-grip  with  Germany.  But  she's 
a  dear  old  country,  and  her  people  are  as  brave 
and  cheery  as  in  the  days  when  she  was  JNIerrie 
England,  and  not  England  of  ^lany  Sorrows. 
,     "To  hear  her  people  talk,  you  would  think  that 

299 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

the  Canadians  and  the  Australians  had  done  all 
the  fighting,  and  that  the  United  States  was  the 
savior  of  the  world ;  but  I  know  there's  hardly  a 
home  in  England  or  Scotland  that  hasn't  lost  a 
son — and  often  the  last  son  too.  And  when  the 
old  families  send  their  boys,  it's  right  into  the 
trenches,  not  back  on  the  lines  of  communica- 
tion. 

"There — you  can  see  why  I  have  not  written 
before.  Incoherency  alone  is  hardly  sufficient.  I 
haven't  seriously  sorted  my  impressions  as  yet. 
As  you  would  say,  the  chaos  has  not  yet  become 
cosmos. 

"By-the-by,  the  British  Navy  mothered  us 
from  the  coast  of  Ireland  like  an  eagle  with  her 
young. 

"Every  one  is  most  cordial,  and  invitations  are 
showered  on  us  from  every  quarter.  I'm  going 
to-morrow  to  visit  the  Earl  of  Lummersdale,  who 
seems  to  want  to  entertain  a  real,  live  American. 
As  I  have  six  days'  leave,  I'm  going  to  let  him. 
They  tell  me  he  comes  of  a  very  old  family,  so 
look  out  for  an  article  on  the  aristocracy. 

"This  letter  is  rambling  most  aimlessly.  I 
suppose  you  are  bored  to  tears.    Just  a  minute, 

300 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

till  I  read  over  what  I  have  written.  .  .  .  Yes — 
I  might  add  in  my  comments  on  the  English 
theater  that  a  chap  named  Beecham  is  doing 
opera  in  English,  and  it's  pretty  nearly  the  finest 
opera  I  have  ever  heard.  Then,  of  course,  ^^  .irrie 
produces  a  play  every  now  and  then,  just  to  show 
that  he  hasn't  lost  his  genius  of  tenderness  and 
whimsical  charm. 

"Perhaps  my  visit  to  the  Earl  of  Lummersdale 
will  crystallize  some  of  my  vagrant  impressions. 
Good-by,  dear  patron. — Faithfully  yours, 
Lawrence  Craighouse  ( Lt. ) , 
c/o  American  Officers'  Club,  London. 

"P.  S. — We're  working  like  beavers  getting 
things  ready  for  the  American  Army  which  is 
coming.  It  looks  slow,  but  when  Uncle  Sam's 
men  are  ready,  Fritz  is  going  to  enjoy  a  real 
avalanche.    This,  I  promise  you. 

"L.  C." 
IV 

One  morning  a  south  coast  train  contained  a 
first-class  compartment  which  was  shared  by 
Lieutenant  Craighouse,  U.S.A.,  and  a  timor- 
ously proper  gentleman  who  read  the  Times  for 

301 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

twenty  minutes,  and  then  stared  at  nothing  very 
intently — an  art  highly  developed  amongst  those 
who  worship  at  the  shrine  of  good  form. 

Craighouse  was  silent  also  for  over  an  hour, 
which  was  a  feat  of  the  first  magnitude  for  him. 
He  was  thinking  of  some  official  figures  shown 
to  him,  in  confidence,  a  week  past — figures 
which  gave  the  totals  of  England's  manufacture 
of  munitions  and  guns,  her  construction  of  aero- 
planes and  tanks,  her  production  of  all  the  mi- 
nutiae of  war  essentials,  in  quantities  which  his 
brain  could  hardly  grasp. 

Judged  by  any  standard,  the  achievement  was 
amazing.  For  a  nation  at  peace  it  would  have 
been  stupendous;  but,  in  addition,  this  country 
that  amused  Americans,  this  nation  of  obsolete 
methods  and  lack  of  organization,  had  held  the 
seas  open  and  frustrated  Germany's  plans  on 
land.  He  wondered  if  he  had  been  a  fool — if, 
after  all,  the  English  were  not  the  most  efficient 
race  on  earth.  Just  then  an  advertisement,  con- 
spicuously placed  beside  the  mirror  in  the  com- 
partment, smote  his  eye,  and  he  gasped. 

"How  many  people  ride  in  a  carriage  like  this 
in  one  day?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

302 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

The  well-bred  one  cleared  his  throat  and  shook 
his  head.  They  had  not  been  introduced;  and, 
besides,  he  didn't  know. 

"Ten,  twenty,  forty — say  thirty?"  said  Craig- 
house. 

"Very  probably — oh,  yes — rather — quite." 
The  words  were  decorously  languid. 

"Thirty  people  a  day,"  w^ent  on  Craighouse 
rapidly;  "say  a  thousand  a  month.  In  a  year 
that  would  mean,  roughly — oh,  put  it  at  ten 
thousand.    Am  I  right?" 

The  Englishman  shifted  uneasily.  "Very  prob- 
ably— oh  yes — rather — quite." 

"The  war  has  been  going  on  for  three  years." 
The  American  was  warming  to  his  subject. 
"Three  years  mean  that  approximately  thirty 
thousand  passengers  have  traveled  in  this  com- 
partment since  the  beginning  of  the  war,  eh?" 

His  companion  reached  for  his  cigarettes. 
"Very  probably,"  he  said.     "Oh  yes — rath " 

"How  many  of  these  carriages  are  in  use?" 
interrupted  Craighouse.  "Two  hundred,  four 
hundred — say  three  hundred?" 

"Very  probably — oh  yes " 

"I  may  be  short  or  long  on  that  estimate,  but 
303 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

putting  it  at  three  hundred,  this  line  has  had 
about — well,  roughly,  nine  million  first-class  pas- 
sengers.   Is  that  correct?" 

"Very  pro " 

"Then,  great  Scott!  look  at  the  advertisement 
behind  you,  the  most  prominent  one  in  the  com- 
partment. This  line  has  had  a  chance  to  have  a 
heart-to-heart  talk  with  nine  million  average, 
well-to-do  passengers.  From  the  standpoint  of 
propaganda,  figure  out  the  national  importance 
of  that.  From  the  commercial  point  of  view, 
estimate  the  value  of  that  space.  And  yet,  after 
three  years  of  war,  it  says  that  the  steamship 
line  from  Newhaven  to  Dieppe  is  the  shortest 
route  to  Austria,  south  Germany,  and  Spain! 
And  it  gives  a  map!   Austria,  south  Germany, 

and  Spain! "    The  American's  tirade  ended 

in  a  splutter  of  indignation. 

The  train  stopped  at  a  junction  station,  and 
both  men  emerged,  the  Englishman  proffering  his 
cigarettes. 

"Thanks  very  much,"  said  Craighouse,  taking 
one.  "Good-morning."  And  he  disappeared 
into  the  crowd. 

The  Englishman  paused  to  light  his  cigarette. 
304 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

"What  extraordinary  people  these  Americans 
are!"  he  said  to  himself — which  recalls  the  well- 
known  saying  of  a  Quaker  to  his  wife,  "Every 
one  is  queer  but  thee  and  me;  and  thou  beest  a 
little  queer." 


V 


When  one  passed  the  lodge  which  guarded  the 
entrance  to  the  Lummersdale  estate,  all  sense  of 
present-day  responsibilities  fell  away  like  a 
cloak.  Decades  made  no  impression  upon  Oak- 
lands  ;  centuries  very  little.  The  family  was  sur- 
rounded by  traditions;  the  past  pointed  the  way 
to  each  succeeding  generation,  as  sign-posts  di- 
rect itinerant  motor-cars  upon  their  course.  A 
Lummersdale  never  was  forced  to  plan  his  own 
future,  and  there  is  no  record  of  one  ever  having 
done  so.  Whoever  bore  the  proud  title  felt  that 
his  children  did  not  really  belong  to  him ;  he  was 
but  a  pruner,  and  they  were  branches  to  be 
trimmed  to  an  absolute  uniformity.  A  Lummers- 
dale must  resemble  nothing  so  much  as  a  Lum- 
mersdale; the  associations  of  Oaklands  and  a 
judicious  period  spent  at  a  public  school  suc- 

305 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

ceeded  admirably  in  effecting  the  required  stand- 
ardization. 

To  this  home  Lieutenant  Craighouse,  of  the 
U.S.A.  Engineers,  brought  his  ultra-modern  and 
Western  Hemispheric  personality.  Like  all  men 
born  in  a  republic,  he  had  instinctive  leanings 
towards  Socialism;  like  most  men  of  artistic 
tastes,  he  was  distinctly  susceptible  to  luxurj^ 
He  snorted  disapprovingly  when  the  castle-like 
turrets  of  Oaklands  appeared,  but  he  drank  in 
the  green  of  the  lawns  and  the  colors  of  the 
flowers  like  a  desert  traveler  who  finds  a  pool  in 
his  path. 

The  earl  and  his  lady  welcomed  him  with 
simple  dignity,  spoke  of  the  pleasure  it  afforded 
them  to  entertain  an  American  officer;  and  the 
butler  then  took  charge  of  him.  Craighouse 
made  a  facetious  remark  to  that  gentleman  as 
they  went  upstairs,  but  received  no  encourage- 
ment. Within  the  precincts  of  his  chamber  he 
made  another  attempt  with  creditable  bonhomie, 
but  Mr.  Watkins's  reply  was  not  stimulating. 

"Your  bath,  sir,  is  next  door,  and  will  be 
ready  for  you  immediately.  The  family  break- 
fasts at  nine;  lunch  is  at  one-thirty,  tea  at  five; 

306 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

and  dinner  is  served  at  eight-fifteen.  The  gong 
is  sounded,  and  the  family  assem])les  in  the  sa- 
loon."* Whereupon,  with  an  air  of  deferential 
superiority,  Mr.  Watkins  cruised  from  the  room 
with  no  apparent  physical  effort  whatever. 

Luncheon  produced  Second  Lieutenant  Vis- 
count Oaklands,  the  twenty-year-old  son  and 
heir,  who  was  leaving  that  afternoon  to  join  the 
— th  Horse  Guards  in  France.  He  was  of  good 
athletic  physique,  and  had  a  high,  clear  com- 
plexion which  spoke  not  only  of  an  out-of-door 
life,  but  a  clean  one  as  well.  He  was  rather 
languid,  and,  in  an  amiable,  impersonal  way, 
appeared  somewhat  bored.  The  second  son,  on 
three  days'  leave  from  Dartmouth,  was  two  years 
younger,  but  differed  very  little  from  the  vis- 
count in  any  other  respect. 

There  was  also  a  daughter.  (Craighouse 
knew  instinctively  that,  if  the  countess  had  been 
enumerating  her  family,  she  would  have  said,  "I 
also  have  a  daughter.")  She  was  apparently 
twenty-three  or  twenty-four  years  of  age,  pos- 
sessed of  an  exquisite  skin,  eyes  which  were  both 
blue  and  deep,  and  a  golden  luxury  of  hair.  With 
all  these  fundamentals  of  feminine  beauty,  her 

307 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

appearance  was  rather  disappointing — a  lack  of 
animation  in  the  eyes,  a  stolidity  about  the  mouth. 
Craighouse  felt,  like  Pygmalion,  that  if  this  statue 
could  only  come  to  life  she  would  be  irresistible. 

The  conversation  at  lunch  consisted  of  flatter- 
ing questions  about  America's  preparations — 
questions  to  which  Craighouse,  who  was  never  an 
economist  in  words,  did  full  justice.  They  all 
said  that  it  was  perfectly  splendid  of  America 
to  come  into  the  war;  in  fact,  they  didn't  know 
what  Britain  would  have  done  without  her. 

"I  know,"  blurted  Craighouse.  "She'd  have 
gone  on  fighting  until  every  family  was  drained 
to  the  last  man;  and,  by  Jove!  I  believe  the 
women  would  have  carried  on  then.  America 
is  going  to  make  victory  possible,  thank  God! 
but  England  never  would  have  been  beaten." 

He  stopped,  surprised  at  his  own  vehemence. 
The  Earl  of  Lummersdale  protested  that  he 
was  too  generous.  The  countess  echoed  her  hus- 
band's opinion.  The  sub  and  naval  cadet  sons 
supported  their  parents'  protests  languidly.  The 
daughter,  in  acknowledged  order  of  precedence, 
ended  the  chorus  by  the  statement  that  it  was 
ripping  of  him  to  say  so.     Had  they  been  dis- 

308 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

cussing  the  commentaries  of  Csesar  they  could 
not  have  shown  less  enthusiasm.  Craighouse  pic- 
tured a  similar  situation  at  home  if  an  English 
officer  had  paid  a  corresponding  compliment.  He 
had  not  learned  as  yet  that  carrying  emotional 
moderation  to  excess  is  part  of  the  English 
paradox. 

At  four  that  afternoon  a  trap  drove  up  to  the 
door,  and  the  kit  of  Viscount  Oaklands  appeared 
followed  a  moment  later  by  that  young  gentle- 
man himself.  He  kissed  his  mother,  and  gave  his 
sister  a  half-embrace;  then  he  shook  hands  with 
his  paternal  progenitor,  and  nodded  to  his 
younger  brother. 

"Good-by,  old  man,"  he  said,  shaking  hands 
with  Craighouse.  "Look  me  up  if  you  ever  get 
near  the  regiment,  won't  you?" 

For  a  few  minutes  every  one  spoke  of  the 
military  situation,  the  delightful  fellow-officers 
he  would  have,  and  other  things  which  well-bred 
people  talk  of.  Amidst  all  this  the  trap  started, 
then  stopped  at  a  sign  from  the  viscount. 

"I  say,  dad." 

"Yes,  Douglas?" 

"Do  tell  Edwards  to  see  that  the  hounds  get 
309 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

some  exercise  this  week. — Cheer-o,  mater !"  And 
thus  the  eldest  son  and  heir  to  Oaklands,  which 
he  was  never  to  see  again,  went  to  the  war. 


VI 


Dazed  at  the  bloodlessness  of  the  scene,  feeling 
his  heart  torn  by  the  apparent  lack  of  depth  in 
the  most  primeval  of  all  emotions,  the  parent 
love,  Craighouse  strolled  away,  to  find  that  the 
daughter  was  by  his  side. 

"You  will  miss  your  brother,"  he  said. 

"We  shall,"  she  said;  "though,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  haven't  seen  much  of  Douglas  the  last 
three  or  four  years." 

"How  is  that?" 

"Oh,  he  was  at  Eton,  and  only  home  during 
the  holidays.  I  was  always  away  at  those  times ; 
and,  of  course,  he's  been  training  for  the  last 
year." 

"He  is  joining  the  Horse  Guards?" 

"Yes.  The  eldest  son  always  goes  into  the 
army  until  he  succeeds  to  the  title." 

"And  the  second  son?" 
310 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

"The  nav>^" 

A  smile  lurked  in  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
"Supposing  the  second  son  proved  a  bad  sailor, 
what  then?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  suppose  he 
would  stay  on  shore,  and  probablj^  go  to  the 
devil." 

He  stooped  to  pick  a  blade  of  grass,  and 
munched  it  meditatively.  "And  what  happens 
to  the  girls?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

Her  lips,  which  were  like  pomegranates, 
straightened  into  a  line.  "The  girls  are  not  of 
great  account,"  she  said,  a  note  of  suppressed 
tension  in  her  voice,  which  he  quite  failed  to 
note.  "We  are  educated  in  a  sort  of  a  way,  in- 
troduced to  the  arts,  but  not  allowed  to  pursue 
the  acquaintanceship;  then  we  marry — if  at  all 
— some  one  of  our  set  and  everybody  says, 
'Didn't  she  do  well  to  get  him?'  " 

"And  then?" 

Again  she  made  a  pretty  shrug  with  her 
shoulders.  "Then  we  move  into  our  new  homes, 
which  are  much  the  same  as  the  old  ones,  and 
we  bring  up  a  family  of  descendants  for  our 
husbands.     When  the  husband  dies,  the  eldest 

311 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

male  child  takes  over  the  estate,  and  his  wife 
rules  in  the  mother's  place." 

"And  she  leaves,  in  her  declining  years,  the 
home  which,  naturally,  she  has  grown  to  love  ?" 

"Yes.    Why  not?" 

For  several  moments  neither  spoke.  Always 
hasty  in  its  judgments,  his  brain  was  fired  with 
a  rankling  sense  of  injustice.  He  thought  he 
saw  the  explanation  of  the  bloodless  good-by 
to  the  viscount.  The  mental  inertia  of  the  sons 
and  the  emotional  placidity  of  the  girl  were  nat- 
ural consequences  of  a  hereditary  system  which 
dulled  personalities  and  drove  initiative  into  the 
scrap-heap  of  tradition.  It  was  monstrous  that 
one's  future  and  entity  should  be  planned  like 
the  life  of  a  hot-house  plant;  it  was  no  longer  a 
puzzle  to  him  that  England's  real  leaders  and 
thinkers  sprang  from  obscurity.  He  thanked 
"whatever  gods  there  be"  that  he  was  born  in  a 
country  which  had  only  one  tradition — that  it 
once  rebelled  against  the  past. 

He  turned  towards  the  girl  and  gazed  argu- 
mentatively  into  her  very  deep  and  very  blue 
eyes;  then  he  gasped,  and  a  far-away  look  crept 
into  his  own  dark,  restless  ones. 

312 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

"Galatea,"  he  said,  "is  coming  to  life" 

Subconsciously  she  had  caught  his  spirit  of 
resentment,  and,  being  a  woman,  she  thrilled  to 
the  sense  of  rebellion  in  his  nature.  With  the 
unlocking  of  her  emotions  had  come  the  sparkle 
in  the  blue  depths  of  her  eyes,  and  the  anima- 
tion which  had  lit  at  once  the  dormant  radiancy 
of  her  beauty — and  his  sudden  admiration.  In 
addition — though  none  was  needed — the  mellow- 
ing sun  lingered  on  her  hair  till  it  seemed  like 
strands  of  gold. 

"You  look  like  a  wild  rose,"  he  said  irrele- 
vantly, then  dashed  on  into  a  sea  of  words.  "Are 
you  content  with  this  ?  Do  you  never  feel  a  divine 
restlessness  in  your  nature,  urging  you  to  be  the 
architect  of  your  own  fate?  Are  you  satisfied  to 
be  a  mere  link  in  the  chain  of  generations  ?  Surely 
the  individualistic  instinct  is  not  dead  in  this 
countrj'?" 

He  paused,  rather  astonished,  but  quite  pleased 
with  his  burst  of  oratory. 

"What  would  you  have  me  do?" 

"Anything — everything  that  expresses  your 
own  personality.  Be  yourself,  and  get  away 
from  type." 

313 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"I  have  done  a  little." 

"What?  Appeared  in  a  few  charity  tahleauoff 
vivants?  Posed  for  your  photo  in  the  Sketch  as 
a  woman  interested  in  war  work?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said  demurely,  "that  you 
disapprove  of  me." 

"Great  Scott!"  he  said,  thrusting  his  hands 
into  his  pockets  with  an  air  of  defiance,  "you  are 
one  of  the  most  charming  women  I've  ever  seen." 
He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height.  "But  be- 
fore I  succumb  to  the  beauty  of  these  surround- 
ings and  the — the — loveliest " 

"Yes?    Please  don't  hesitate." 

*'You  are  mocking  me." 

"Not  at  all,  Don  Quixote.  Only  why  shy  at 
the  windmill?" 

He  surveyed  her  carefully  with  his  head  cocked 
to  one  side.  "I  believe  you  have  a  sense  of 
humor,"  he  said. 

"The  daughter  of  an  earl  humorous?"  She 
laughed  gaily,  and  her  beauty  was  exceedingly 
good  to  look  upon. 

An  uncomfortable  feeling  crept  into  the  mind 
of  Lawrence  Craighouse,  officer  and  satirist,  that, 
though  armed  with  the  broadsword  of  masculine 

314 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

self-assurance,  he  was  being  beaten  by  the  sti- 
letto of  feminism.  His  embarrassment,  however, 
was  broken  by  the  approach  of  a  servant. 

"Pardon  me/'  said  Lady  Dorothy.  "It's  the 
mail." 

She  took  from  the  salver  a  letter,  which  bore 
the  stamp  of  the  Red  Cross,  and  opened  it. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him; 
"I  have  been  accepted  for  France." 

"As  what?" 

"As  a  V.A.D.,  my  dear  knight.  I  have  been 
one  for  two  years." 

He  began  to  think  that  his  broadsword  was 
decidedly  worsted,  but  he  made  one  final  and 
thoroughly  masculine  attempt  to  retain  the  pos- 
ture of  superiority. 

"I  supposed  you  soothed  a  great  many  con- 
valescent and  gallant  lieutenants?"  he  said  airily. 
It  was  a  lamentable  attempt,  but  he  felt  a  sud- 
den jealously  of  all  wounded  subalterns. 

She  pirouetted  daintily. 

"I  was  in  a  Tommies'  hospital,"  she  said;  "and 
when  I  wasn't  scrubbing  floors  I  was  waiting  on 
the  nurses  at  table — and  you  have  no  idea  what 
cats  some  of  them  were." 

315 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Whereupon  Lawrence  Craighouse  of  New 
York  handed  over  his  sword  and  surrendered 
unconditionally. 

VII 

Three  days  later  Craighouse  wrote  another 
letter  to  JNIr.  Townsend.  That  gentleman  read  it 
with  great  interest,  and  noted  particularly  these 
passages:  "They  have  a  library,  but  nearly 
every  book  I  have  opened  has  uncut  pages." 
"The  daughter,  Lady  Dorothy  Oaklands  by 
name,  is  quite  good-looking,  but  mentally  and 
emotionally  she  is  asleep."  "The  old  boy  showed 
me  the  portraits  of  his  ancestors  this  morning. 
I  made  the  mistake  of  asking  what  each  one  did. 
It  appears  that  they  merely  were/^  "I  am  try- 
ing an  experiment  in  feminine  psychology — I 
am  acting  Pygmalion  to  Lady  Dorothy's  Gala- 
tea." "The  earl  appears  to  be  very  rich,  but 
quite  respectable."  "We  had  some  titled  women 
to  lunch  to-day.  I  have  at  last  found  out  what 
countesses  talk  about — how  to  secure  exemption 
for  their  gardeners.  It  has  quite  done  away  with 
the  former  vice  of  gossip."     "Lady  Dorothy 

316 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

plays  the  piano  rather  nicely,  but  with  no  soul." 
"Have  I  mentioned  the  daughter,  Lady  Doro- 
thy? She  is  refreshingly  beautiful  at  times."  "I 
do  like  the  speaking  voices  of  English  women 
when  they  are  not  putting  on  side.  Lady  Doro- 
thy has  a  contralto  lilt  in  her  voice  that  is  rather 
pleasing."  "Dinner  is  a  tremendous  affair.  A 
prune  may  constitute  a  course,  but  nothing  re- 
duces the  ritual  performed  by  the  high  priest 
and  his  assistant." 

That  evening  Mr.  Townsend  looked  over  the 
table  at  his  wife. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "what  happens  when  an 
American  young  man  falls  in  love  with  the 
daughter  of  an  English  earl?" 

"Why,  both  families  object,  naturally,"  said 
the  companion  of  his  joys  and  sorrows. 

VIII 

It  was  the  last  evening  before  his  departure, 
and  Lady  Dorothy  had  played  for  him  for  an 
hour;  played  little  melodies  from  La  Bolieme, 
lesser  gems  from  Cliu  Chin  Chow,  and  twice  had 
explored  the  delightful  memories  of  Gilbert  and 

317 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

Sullivan.  Once  he  sang  very  softly  to  her  ac- 
companiment, and  when  they  finished  she  turned 
abruptly  to  him. 

"You  have  a  voice,"  she  said. 

"You  play  beautifully,"  he  answered. 

"It  is  easy  to  play  when  an  artist  is  listening." 

"Have  you  found  that,  too?" 

She  turned  to  the  piano  and  softly  fingered 
the  opening  strains  of  Rudolpho's  aria  in  the 
first  act  of  La  Bohhne. 

"It  is  just  a  matter  of  personality,"  he  said 
softly.  "One  woman  chokes  a  man's  artistry; 
another  reveals  the  heights  which  are  in  his  soul. 
I  suppose  it  is  the  same  with  men?" 

She  played  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
then  murmured,  "What  happened  to  the  statue 
when  it  came  to  life?" 

"You  mean  Galatea?" 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said  pensively.  "I  have 
quite  forgotten  the  ending." 

She  went  on  playing,  and  in  the  soothing  light 
of  the  music-room  she  made  a  picture  that  lin- 
gered for  months  in  his  memory. 

318 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

"Some  day  I  will  tell  you,"  she  said  suddenly. 
"Here  are  mother  and  dad." 

That  night,  while  in  the  act  of  disrobing,  he 
heard  the  calm  knock  of  Mr.  Watkins  at  his  door. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  at  seven  to- 
morrow morning." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

Mr.  Watkins  carefully  placed  a  pitcher  of  hot 
water  on  the  stand. 

"Are  you  married,  Watkins?" 

The  butler  considered  deferentially.  "No,  sir," 
he  said,  after  mature  reflection. 

"You  ought  to  be,"  said  the  American. 

The  butler  carefully  drew  the  window-curtains 
together.    "Are  you,  sir?" 

"No,"  said  Craighouse  with  great  energy;  "but 
when  I  do  marry  it  will  be  with  some  girl  born 
in  the  United  States  of  America." 

Mr.  Watkins  drifted  towards  the  door.  "Your 
bath  will  be  ready  at  six,  and  breakfast  at  six- 
thirty,"  he  said. 

What  Mr.  Watkins  had  taken  for  persiflage 
was  in  reality  another  American  declaration  of 
independence. 


319 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 


IX 


It  was  late  in  March,  1918,  that  two  American 
officers  sat  by  the  side  of  a  road  in  France  and 
watched  a  stream  of  refugees  go  by  in  an  endless 
pageant  of  misery.  Old  men  crawled  along  on 
bleeding,  ill-shod  feet;  women  were  carrying 
grotesque  bundles  and  leading  absurd  ponies  that 
drew  household  goods  on  rickety  carts ;  and  there 
were  girls,  half-women,  who  bore  infants  in  their 
arms,  and  who  looked  neither  to  right  nor  left, 
but  followed  on  in  mute  fatigue  and  tearless 
agony. 

Craighouse,  who  wore  the  badges  of  a  captain, 
swore  softly  to  himself.    His  companion  bit  his 

lip. 

"I  hear  the  Germans  are  smashing  through 
everjrsvhere,"  said  the  latter. 

"God!  I  wonder  if  we  have  been  too  late." 

Several  ambulances  passed  in  rapid  succession, 
their  bandaged  and  bleeding  occupants  lying 
crowded  together. 

A  girl,  less  than  eighteen  years  of  age,  dropped 
to  the  ground  opposite  to  them.     In  a  bound 

320 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

Craighouse  was  by  her  side  and  had  lifted  her  to 
her  feet.  For  a  moment  his  strong  hands  gripped 
her  arms  tenaciously  as  though  he  would  trans- 
mit some  of  his  strength  to  her. 

Without  a  word,  without  a  look  at  him,  she 
freed  herself  and  staggered  on,  her  face  livid 
except  where  a  slight  flush  showed  beneath  the 
black  hollows  of  her  eyes. 

Craighouse  went  back  to  the  other  officer,  but 
his  face  was  gray  and  drawn,  while  his  clenched 
fists  drove  the  nails  into  his  palms.  His  com- 
panion cursed  blasphemously. 

The  roar  of  the  guns  grew  louder,  like  a  storm 
that  is  driven  on  the  wings  of  a  hurricane.  They 
heard  the  snorting  of  engines  behind  them,  and 
looking  quickly,  they  saw  a  long  line  of  London 
omnibuses  crowded  with  English  soldiers.  They 
were  shouting  encouragement  to  the  refugees, 
and  waved  gaily  as  they  passed  the  Americans. 

"Those  chaps  will  be  in  action  in  an  hour," 
said  Craighouse,  and  swallowed  noticeably. 
"Simpson,"  he  went  on,  "do  you  realize  that  it's 
little  England  who  has  kept  this  thing  from  us 
for  three  and  a  half  years?  It's  England  who 
stood  by  her  word;  and  now  that  she's  drained 

321 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

of  her  men  and  boys,  she  doesn't  reproach  Rus- 
sia for  letting  her  down;  she  hasn't  uttered  a 
word  of  impatience  for  our  slow  arrival — asking 
nothing  for  herself,  blaming  no  one.  It's  little 
England  who  is  gathering  the  spear-points  into 
her  breast  that  your  children  and  mine  may  live 
like  human  beings!" 

His  companion  rose  to  his  feet,  and  his  jaw 
stiffened  ominously.  He  felt  for  his  revolver- 
holster  and  adjusted  his  haversack. 

"Tell  the  O.C.  I've  deserted,"  he  said  grimly. 
"I'm  going  up  the  line  to  join  the  first  bunch 
that'll  take  me.  There's  some  vermin  up  there 
that  I  reckon  need  exterminating." 

Craighouse  muttered  something  about  discip- 
line. 

"To  hell  with  discipline!"  said  Lieutenant 
Simpson,  ex-mining  engineer  of  Colorado.  "I'm 
going " 

A  corporal  had  halted  before  them  and  saluted. 
"O.C.'s  compliments,"  he  said  tersely,  "and  the 
company  is  to  go  up  the  line  as  auxiliary  in- 
fantry. Parade  falling  in  now,  sir.  We  move  oif 
in  an  hour." 

When  the  officers  reached  their  headquarters 
322 


/ 

MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

they  found  a  scene  of  bustling  activity.  Gas- 
masks were  being  inspected,  ammunition  sup- 
plied, first-aid  packages  given  out  where  they 
had  been  lost,  rifles  cleaned  and  inspected,  and 
all  the  accouterments  of  war  checked  and  short- 
ages replaced. 

Craighouse  strode  up  to  his  section,  ignoring 
the  sergeant's  salute.  "We're  going  into  this 
scrap,"  he  said  quietly,  though  his  voice  vibrated 
oddly,  "and  I  want  every  mother's  son  of  you 
to  see  red.  There's  a  girl  out  on  that  road  who 
is  dying  of  fever,  and  its  fear  of  the  Hun  that 
is  driving  her  on,  and  before  night  she'll  be  lying 
dead  by  the  side  of  the  road.  She's  somebody's 
daughter — somebody's  sister — and,  by  Heaven, 
we'll  make  the  Hun  pay  for  it!  What  do  you 
say,  you  Yankee  sons  o'  guns?" 

They  cheered  him  to  the  echo,  and  some  of 
them  swore,  and  some  of  them  laughed  (but  the 
laugh  had  a  cruel  ring  in  it),  and  some  of  them 
felt  the  salt  tears  stinging  their  eyes — but  every 
one  saw  red. 

Craighouse  slowly  walked  over  to  his  hut  to 
superintend  the  packing  of  his  own  things.  In 
his  heart  was  a  great  exaltation  and  a  mad  love 

323 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

for  the  men  who  looked  to  him  for  leadership.  In 
the  seclusion  of  his  hut  he  did  what  he  had  not 
done  for  years.  He  knelt  for  a  moment  by  the 
side  of  his  kit  and  prayed  that  he  might  quit 
himself  like  a  man. 

There  are  moments  in  war  when  men's  very 
souls  are  touched  by  a  nobility,  by  a  compassion, 
by  a  reverence  that  rises  above  all  creeds.  Out 
of  the  depths  they  have  risen  to  heights  supernal. 


X 


In  a  private  ward  at  Abbeville  an  American 
officer  lay  in  great  pain,  and  tossed  restlessly  in 
a  delirium  of  fever.  A  young  woman  in  the  uni- 
form of  a  V.A.D.  watched  by  his  side,  and, 
sponging  his  palms  and  forehead,  sought  to 
soothe  him  with  a  gentleness  and  a  tenderness 
that  a  mother  would  show  to  her  child.  The 
man  was  badly  wounded  in  chest  and  leg,  and 
exposure  had  brought  a  fever  to  torment  his 
sufferings.  Once  he  sat  up  and  glared  wildly 
at  her. 

"Did  the  guns  get  away?"  he  cried.  "Did  they 
get  away?" 

324 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

"Hush!"  she  said  softly.  "You  must  not  talk. 
You  are  very  ill." 

He  sank  back  on  the  pillows  and  laughed. 
"There's  a  girl  lying  dead  on  the  road,"  he  said; 
"but  there's  a  crowd  of  Huns  this  morning  who 
are  answering  the  roll-call  in  hell." 

He  was  silent  for  several  minutes,  then 
frowned  heavily.  "Look  here,"  he  said  sternly, 
"I  wish  you  would  stop  driving  nails  into  my 
knee.    Who  do  you  think  I  am — Hindenburg?" 

He  laughed  again,  then  gi'oaned,  and  great 
drops  of  perspiration  stood  out  on  his  brow.  The 
woman  ministered  to  him  with  the  gentle  firm- 
ness of  her  sex  that  rises  to  its  best  when  face 
to  face  with  suffering.  She  smoothed  his  pillows 
and  shifted  his  position  so  that  he  might  not  irri- 
tate his  wounds;  and,  as  if  soothed  by  her  pres- 
ence, he  sighed  weakly  and  broke  into  a  little 
negro  melody : 

"All  dat  I  got  on  de  whole  plantation, 
All  dat  I  got  in  de  whole  creation, 
In  de  big  roun'  worl'  or  de  deep-blue  skies, 
Is  dat  fat  li'l  feller  wid  his  mammy's  eyes, 
Li'l  feller  wid  his  mammy's  eyes." 
325 


\ 

THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

His  voice  was  very  low  and  soft.  Then  he 
suddenly  sat  up  in  bed  and  pointed  past  her. 
"Look!"  he  cried.  "The  cavalry!  The  cavalry! 
By  Heaven,  how  they  ride !  Look  at  that  officer ! 
Great  Scott!  it's  Oaklands !— Good  old  Oak- 
lands! — Come  on,  men — one  last  fight! — Get 
those  guns  away — d'  you  hear?  Get  those  guns 
away — now!" 

Weak  from  the  effort  he  had  made,  he  sank 
back  with  a  moan;  and  the  woman  stroked  his 
brow,  and  kept  back  the  tears  which  welled  to  her 
eyes.  For  half-an-hour  he  did  not  speak;  then 
he  went  through  the  pantomime  of  lighting  a 
cigarette. 

"The  reason  I  can't  marry  her,"  he  said  ab- 
ruptly, "is  the  same  reason  that  East  is  East  and 
West  is  West.  What  can  I  offer  her?  She  can't 
dress  on  two  manuscripts  a  month;  and,  besides, 
she  knows  nothing  of  building  bridges.  If  I  made 
a  great  success  I  might  come  to  her,  but — 
as  I  am  now — no — no."  He  solemnly  shook 
his  head  and  flicked  the  ash  from  the  imaginary 
cigarette.  "Can  you  picture  Lady  Dorothy  in  a 
pretty  little  cottage  outside  New  York,  helping 

326 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

me  to  write — my  constant  inspiration — the 
mother  of  my  children?  Can  you  picture  her 
sharing  my  discouragements;  telling  me  I  can 
write  if  the  whole  world  says  I  cannot ;  believing 
in  me  when  I've  lost  belief  in  myself?  Can  you 
see  her  motoring  into  New  York  with  me,  and 
the  two  of  us  dining  at  Rector's  to  celebrate  the 
acceptance  of  a  play?  Would  she  be  happy  in 
such  a  life?  No — no — no;  as  Euclid  says,  it 
'is  absurd.'  By  the  way,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
might  shift  the  grand  piano,  will  you?  It  is 
resting  on  my  knee." 

His  voice  trailed  into  silence,  and  he  sank 
into  a  slumber.  Twilight  was  throwing  its  cloak 
over  the  earth  when  he  spoke  again.  His  hand 
reached  out,  and  she  took  it  in  both  of  hers. 

"I  thought  I  was  dying,"  he  murmured.  "I 
think  I  should  have  died  there — in  that  ditch — 
but  Dorothy — Dorothy — was  beside  me.  .  .  . 
She  held  my  hand  when  everything  went  dark — 
she  wept  a  little.  ...  It  was  only  a  dream,  I 
know;  but  I  lived.  She  must  never  know  I  loved 
her — because " 

"Lawrence!"  The  word  was  low  and  stifled. 
327 


\ 

THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"Lawrence" — that  was   all.     Then   she  leaned 
over  and  kissed  his  lips. 
Galatea  had  cmne  to  life. 


XI 


The  first  darkening  shadows  of  an  August 
night  crept  over  the  lawns  of  Oaklands,  and  set- 
tled about  the  turrets  of  the  house  like  a  mist. 
Inside,  in  the  music-room,  a  pale  American  offi- 
cer was  telling  some  story — a  story  that  kept 
his  listeners  silent  and  made  the  distant  cry  of 
a  hawk  sound  strangely  eerie  and  loud.  He  had 
three  auditors — an  elderly  man,  who  had  an  un- 
lit cigarette  in  his  fingers;  a  woman,  with  gray 
locks,  who  sat,  motionless,  with  folded  hands; 
and  a  young  woman,  whose  brown  hair  was  like 
gold,  and  in  whose  deep -blue  eyes  there  was  a 
mingled  look  of  pain  and  love. 

"We  knew  when  dawn  broke,"  went  on  the 
American,  "that  we  were  outflanked,  and  we 
tried  to  get  the  guns  away;  but  the  Huns  saw 
our  move,  and  came  at  us  with  bayonets.  We 
formed  a  line  in  front  of  the  guns,  Scots  and 
Englishmen,  and  the  few  of  our  fellows  who  were 

328 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

left,  and  we  did  our  best  to  give  the  gunners 
a  chance,  but  they  were  on  us  too  soon.  Every- 
thing looked  over,  when  we  heard  the  cavalry 
coming.  God!  how  our  men  shouted  as  they 
saw  the  squadron — that  is  all  there  were — bear 
down  on  the  Germans!  Their  officer  seemed  to 
bear  a  charmed  life,  for  he  thrust  and  cut  like 
a  demon,  while  his  commands  rang  out  above 
the  whole  shock  and  crash  of  the  fight.  The 
Germans  fell  back,  and  this  officer  wheeled  about, 
shouting  instructions  for  the  guns  and  rallying 
his  men.  For  the  first  time  I  saw  his  face  as 
he  rode  up  to  me.     It  was  your  boy." 

There  was  a  deathly  silence  for  a  moment, 
unbroken  by  a  sound  from  his  hearers,  though 
a  solitary  tear  fell  slowly  on  the  older  woman's 
cheek. 

"We  contrived  to  get  the  guns  started  back, 
and  we  retreated  to  a  sunken  road  which  gave 
us  protection.  It  was  on  the  way  there  that  I 
was  shot  in  the  knee,  but  managed  to  keep  up, 
when  a  shell  lit  between  two  guns  and  killed 
some  of  the  horses.  We  had  to  leave  them,  and 
went  on;  but  a  few  minutes  later  we  heard  a 
shout.     The  Germans  were  surging  about  the 

329 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

guns,  and  the  little  group  of  cavalry  had  turned 
and  charged  right  into  the  center  of  them.  I  was 
hit  again,  and  dropped;  but  Simpson,  one  of  our 
officers  from  Colorado,  led  our  men  back  to  their 
assistance,  and  they  fought  till  only  Simpson 
and  eight  others  were  left.  Then  he  fell  dead 
beside  the  body  of  your  lad  who  had  led  the  cav- 
alry." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  broken  finally  by 
the  voice  of  the  older  woman.  "I  am  glad  that 
Douglas  died  bravely,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
was  low  and  calm,  "and  I  am  proud  that  he  lies 
in  France  beside  a  very  gallant  American  gen- 
tleman." 

As  if  by  mutual  consent,  every  one  rose,  and 
the  two  women  left  the  room  together. 

The  old  nobleman  stood  by  the  fireplace  and 
gazed  at  the  undulating  lawns  that  showed  from 
the  windows  in  the  deepening  shroud  of  night. 
"It  was  good  of  you  to  tell  us  that,"  he  said;  "it 
will  make  my  wife's  sorrow  more  easy  to  bear." 
He  walked  slowly  to  a  window  and  passed  his 
hand  wearily  over  his  brow.  "Sometime,"  he 
went  on  gently,  "I  must  show  you  his  room.  We 
are  keeping  it  just  as  it  was." 

330 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

Craiglioiise  said  nothing,  but  in  his  heart  was 
a  great  understanding. 

The  first  silver  rays  of  the  moon  were  dancing 
on  the  grass,  when  the  earl  spoke  again.  "It  is 
hard  for  my  wife,"  he  said;  "but  she  will  be 
proud  to  know  that  she  gave  everything  she  had 
for — for  England." 

The  American's  heart  sank.  "Everything?" 
he  stammered.     "You  mean " 

The  older  man's  head  was  bowed  with  the 
simple  dignity  of  his  grief.  "I  have  not  told 
her  yet,"  he  said,  "but  I  received  an  Admiralty 
message  to-day  that  my  second  son's  destroyer 
has  gone  down.    He  is  reported  'missing.'  ** 

XII 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  later,  when  Qraighouse 
was  wandering  about  the  lawns  in  the  glistening 
moonlight,  that  he  heard  the  rustle  of  skirts  be- 
hind him.  It  was  Lady  Dorothy,  and  her  eyes 
were  shining  like  twin-stars. 

"I  thought  you  would  be  here,"  she  said.  "It 
is  a  night  that  draws  one  to  it." 

331 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

"It  is  a  night  for  memories,"  he  said  quietly. 
"What  bitter-sweet  things  they  have  become  since 
we  had  war!" 

"Yes;"  and  she  sighed. 

For  a  little  time  they  spoke  of  the  sorrows 
and  the  tragedies  of  their  world;  they  talked  of 
Oaklands,  which  would  pass  from  her  family  be- 
cause there  was  no  heir;  they  played  on  the 
minor  chords  of  life,  and  in  their  voices  the  mel- 
ancholy elegy  for  beautiful  things  that  had  died 
found  expression  in  their  hushed  and  murmuring 
tones. 

But  they  were  young,  and  in  the  heart  of 
youth  there  is  always  Spring;  and  the  witchery 
of  a  moonlight  night  was  calling  to  it.  The 
minor  strains  trembled  into  silence,  and  the  mel- 
ody of  hearts  that  are  young  took  its  place.  She 
had  deep-blue  eyes  that  were  never  meant  for 
tears,  and  he  had  a  nature  that  responded  to  the 
beauty  of  life  as  an  ^olian  harp  to  the  moods  of 
the  wind. 

As  men  and  maids  have  done  for  generations, 
they  talked  of  themselves.  (A  dangerous  topic 
when  the  moon  is  making  fairy-rings  upon  the 
grass.)      They  traced  their  friendship  from  his 

332 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

first  visit,  and  lightly  touched  on  the  wearj'-  hours 
when  she  watched  by  his  bedside  in  France.  They 
laughed,  they  sighed,  and  once  their  fingers 
touched  by  accident,  and  he  felt  a  thrill  as  the 
hot  blood  rushed  to  his  cheeks.  Pie  experienced 
a  sudden  resentment  against  her  wild-rose  color- 
ing, the  marble  fullness  of  her  throat,  and  the 
luxury  of  silky,  brown  hair  which  held  a  vagrant 
moonbeam  in  a  lingering  caress.  It  was  a  pro- 
test of  the  brain  to  the  senses  against  the  allure- 
ment of  beauty. 

"We  must  never  meet  again,"  he  said  severely. 

"You  are  right,"  she  answered  wistfully,  and 
something  like  a  smile  lurked  mischievously  in 
the  corners  of  her  mouth.  The  moon  plays 
havoc  with  men,  but  lends  great  discernment  to 
the  daughters  of  earth. 

Another  half-hour  passed,  full  of  words  that 
meant  so  little  and  silences  that  meant  so  much. 
Then,  with  a  quick  contraction  of  his  shoulders 
and  a  deepening  frown,  he  turned  and  faced  her 
squarely. 

"I  came  to  your  home,"  he  said,  "to  gather 
material  for  satire.  I  found  it  in  your  parents — 
in  your  brothers — in  you.    In  my  room  are  ten 

333 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

completed  articles  which  I  am  going  to  send  to 
New  York.  They  are  my  impressions  of  the 
English.  They  will  be  published  as  the  psychol- 
ogy of  England  studied  under  the  microscope 
of  a  satirist." 

"And  I  form  one  of  your  satirical  studies?" 

"Yes.  I  referred  to  you  as  Galatea,  and  to 
myself  as  Pygmalion.  You  supply  the  feminine 
interest  which  is  so  necessary.  I  pictured  you 
as  a  statue  amidst  stifling  conventionality,  and 
I  was  the  artist  who  tried  to  bring  you  to 
life." 

"With  what  success?" 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  his 
shoulders  drooped  listlessly.  "The  artist,"  he 
said,  "fell  in  love  with  her  the  moment  the  marble 
t  became  human.     He  was  a  fool." 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said  gently;  and  for  a 
brief  moment — a  very  brief  moment — her  hand 
rested  in  his.  Whereupon  the  moon  was  con- 
strained to  disappear  behind  a  cloud  to  hide  her 
smile.     "And  what  happened  to  her?" 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "being  a  woman,  she  decided  to 
torture  Pygmalion.  She  came  out  on  the  lawn 
at  night  with  him,  and,  by  the  music  of  her 

334 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

voice  and  the  charm  of  her  beauty,  inflicted  an 
hour's  exquisite  pain.  I  am  hke  a  man,"  he  said, 
with  an  abrupt  descent  from  the  impersonal,  "who 
knows  that  on  the  morrow  he  will  be  stricken 
with  blindness,  and  is  looking  for  the  last  time 
on  a  sunset."  Whereupon  Captain  Craighouse 
sighed  like  the  classic  furnace,  and  Lady  Doro- 
thy Oaklands  smiled  again,  though  her  eyes  were 
glistening  with  a  mysterious  dew.  "To-morrow 
morning,"  he  w-ent  on,  "the  sculptor,  sometimes 
known  as  Don  Quixote,  is  going  away  to  forget 
about  the  statue.    It  is  the  only  thing  he  can  do." 

Her  eyes  were  lowered  to  the  ground.  "The 
woman — Galatea,"  she  murmured — "she  just 
forgets,  I  suppose?" 

"Women  forget  easily,"  he  said,  and  thought 
he  spoke  the  truth. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  so  soft 
that  he  could  just  make  out  the  half-whispered 
words;  "let  me  tell  you  the  real  story  of  Pygma- 
lion and  Galatea.  When  the  marble  became  life, 
she  loved  the  artist  who  had  created  her  soul.  But 
he  didn't  return  her  love;  it  had  been  an  experi- 
ment with  him.  So  the  woman  in  her  froze  and 
died,  and  Galatea  became  a  statue  again.'* 

335 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

He  caught  her  hands  in  his,  and  his  eyes 
flashed  like  brilliants.  "Dorothy!"  he  cried, 
"you  are  not  jesting?  You  are  not  just — 
cruel?" 

She  said  nothing;  but,  oh,  what  eloquence 
sometimes  lies  in  a  woman's  silence!  Then  did 
Captain  Craighouse  of  New  York  say  many 
things  which  would  look  absurd  in  the  cold  me- 
dium of  print,  but  which  sounded  like  sweet 
music  to  his  companion  on  that  moonlight  August 
night.  He  likened  her  to  a  motif  that  remained 
in  his  life  as  a  melody  that  haunts  the  memory. 
He  told  her  he  would  scale  the  heights  of  fame 
to  cast  its  laurels  at  her  feet. 

"You  stupid  boy,"  she  laughed  caressingly; 
"as  if  anything  you  could  ever  do  would  be  finer 
than  just  this — that  you  are  fighting  for  your 
country!" 

In  some  mysterious  way  his  hands  reached  her 
shoulders ;  and  in  an  equally  inexplicable  manner 
she  was  suddenly  in  his  arms,  and  her  hot  cheek 
was  against  his. 

"Lawrence  dear,"  she  murmured,  "Galatea 
only  knew  one  thing  about  Pygmalion — that  he 

336 


MR.  CRAIGHOUSE,  SATIRIST 

had  brought  her  into  being,  and  so  she  loved  him. 
That  was  all." 

And  the  moon,  feeling  that  her  evening  had 
been  a  complete  success,  disappeared  behind  a 
cloud,  and  stayed  there. 

XIII 

A  raw  wind  from  the  sea  swept  against  the 
mammoth  building  of  t  ..e  New  York  Monthly 
Journal.  The  editor  of  that  famous  publication 
crossed  to  the  rattling  window  and  looked  at 
Broadway,  far  beneath.  A  few  drops  of  rain 
mingled  with  the  dust  that  eddied  about  in  little 
whirlpools  of  wind. 

In  his  hand  he  held  a  long  letter  from  Craig- 
house,  and,  after  a  pause,  he  re-read  the  ending. 

.  .  .  "And  so  I  crept  downstairs  in  the  early 
morning  and  built  a  fire  of  my  articles,  in  a 
grate.  I  am  sorry  to  have  failed  you ;  but,  if  one 
would  ridicule  England,  first  let  him  go  to  the 
sea  and  watch  the  men  that  go  out  in  ships — and 
the  men  that  never  come  back  from  the  sea.  If 
he  would  scoff  at  the  simple  folk  of  England, 
first  let  him  stop  at  a  farm  I  saw,  where  an  old 

337 


THE  BLOWER  OF  BUBBLES 

man  of  seventy  is  tailing  in  the  fields,  that  the 
King's  horses  and  men  may  be  fed;  while  his 
four  sons  sleep  in  France.  If  he  would  laugh  at 
the  old  families  of  England,  let  him  come  to  the 
old  homes  where  every  son  went  without  a  mur- 
mur, and  where,  too  often,  the  last  one  fell  beside 
his  brothers,  because  England  had  called  for  men. 

"If  he  would  make  the  mothers  of  England  a 
study  for  satire,  first  he  should  mock  the  woman 
at  the  foot  of  the  Cross,  for  her  love  and  their 
love,  her  grief  and  their  grief,  are  one." 

Like  gnomes,  the  people  on  Broadway  hurried 
on  in  an  endless,  diverging  torrent  of  humanity. 


a> 


THE  END 


i 


n  -7. 


FJdcrfr^ 


o  2:^^  ^ 


